‘Done.’ We shook hands. Then his expression became all serious again. ‘Leah, maybe we should wait until we know more about each other.’
I started to feel my heart sink until I saw that little flash in his eyes that told me he was joking.
‘I mean, I have absolutely no idea what your favourite colour is.’
‘Blue. And I don’t know your favourite food.’
‘Toast.’ He threw back the duvet and jumped out of bed. ‘Sorted. Come on then, let’s get down there now and see what the deal is. Wonder if we can arrange our wedding and still have you at work for half eleven?’
Half an hour later, we were striding hand in hand across the Peace Gardens towards the town hall. We were both smiling; we couldn’t stop smiling. I’d had two serious relationships before. One was my first love, David. We were together for three years, then I went to uni in Manchester and he went to Exeter and that was that, really. No big rows, no drama, just a gradual fizzling out. Then there was Leo, the guy I lived with for two years before I got the post here in Sheffield. We had a good time and we rarely argued, but I don’t think I ever really loved him, and when I saw him in a wine bar one night with his arm round another girl, it was almost a relief. The break-up was hard, though – we’d built a home together, and dismantling it made me sadder than I’d expected, even though I’d known all along that my life with him was temporary.
But now I was going to marry this man I’d known for two weeks, and I had no doubts. I loved him and he loved me. The sun was hot and bright and the Peace Gardens were busy. Students were lying stretched out on the grass, some reading, some just dozing. Office workers sat on walls drinking coffee, and children in swimming costumes ran in and out of the water fountains, squealing with delight as frothy jets of water shot up out of the ground.
I stopped walking and put my hand on Adrian’s arm. There was one thing we hadn’t discussed, and as I thought about it, my insides felt cold and the euphoria began to evaporate. ‘Adrian,’ I looked over to where the mums with prams and buggies were clustered around the fountains. ‘We’ve not talked about . . . about children.’
‘What about them?’ he said. But then his face changed as he realised what I meant. He looked serious, worried. ‘Do you want kids?’
I nodded. It was a deal-breaker. I loved him, I knew that absolutely, and I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. But I also wanted to be a mother, and if he—
‘Good,’ he said. ‘I always assumed I’d have kids. We’ll start with four or five and then see how we feel about more.’ He glanced at me and laughed. ‘Your face! Maybe just one or two, then? How does that sound?’
‘Perfect,’ I said. ‘Maybe even three.’
CHAPTER SIX
NOW
I’m putting the wine in the fridge, still in my coat, when the doorbell rings. The image of that police car flashes across my mind. I grab my stick from the kitchen because even though I don’t really need it today, I like the feeling of securit y it gives me. I feel vulnerable without it, like when you forget your phone. As I go to open the door, I think back over the journey I’ve just done to the Tesco Express and back. I couldn’t have hit something without realising it, could I? I’m sure I didn’t, but it is quite foggy, and this did happen once before. I’d pulled over too sharply to let a van pass and I’d hit a parked car. I genuinely couldn’t see any damage and I thought I must have just bumped the mirror. Then later that evening, the police came round saying I’d ‘failed to report an accident’. Fortunately they believed me when I explained, so I paid for the repair and it was all fine. But I’m sure nothing like that happened today.
There are two police officers on the doorstep, a man and a woman, both a bit younger than me, late twenties, early thirties perhaps. The woman is slim, not very tall, but the male officer is big and bulky, and his uniform looks too tight, as if he’s struggled to button it over his bulging middle.
‘Mrs Blackwood?’
Some dark fear blows through me at the sound of his voice. I try to nod, but find myself unable to move.
The woman speaks now. ‘I’m PC Lindsay Jacobs,’ she says, ‘and this is PC Andy Davies. May we come in?’
Why are they telling me their names? Why do they want to come in? What’s happened? I stand back and hold the door open. They both remove their hats and wipe their feet on the mat. My stomach feels as if it’s filling up with iced water as I show them in and invite them to sit down. PC Davies puts his hat on the arm of the sofa, whereas the woman is turning hers round and round in her fingers. I sit in the armchair opposite. ‘Nasty weather, isn’t it?’ I can hear the oddness in my voice. ‘Can I get you some tea? Or a coffee?’ Some distant part of me reasons that the more I talk now, the longer I can delay hearing what they have to say. The male officer clears his throat. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you there’s been a road traffic accident involving a Mr Clive Adrian Blackwood. Is that your husband?’
‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘Sorry, I mean, yes, Adrian is my husband. He doesn’t use Clive – he’s always hated it. But, no, it can’t be my husband – Adrian left his car at the station. He’s at a conference in Leeds.’
The officers glance at each other.
‘I only spoke to him an hour ago. He’s there all day, then he’s going for a drink with some of the others.’ Aware that I’m talking to the police, I add, ‘He’ll probably only have one, then he’ll get the train back. And if he has any more than that, he’ll leave his car at the station and get a taxi home, or I’ll go down and pick him up. He—’
‘Mrs Blackwood,’ the woman interrupts. ‘Mrs Blackwood, your husband was carrying his driving licence. The accident was on the A621, just outside Castledene.’
‘No, Adrian wouldn’t have been anywhere near Castledene, even if he was in the car, which, as I say, he isn’t, because he left it at the station – or near the station. So that’s where he’d be coming from. It can’t be him.’
PC Davies sighs as he flips open his notebook, reads out the registration number, then glances up at me. ‘Black BMW. Do you recognise the registration, Mrs Blackwood?’
I have a powerful sensation of something shifting away from me, of any semblance of normality moving out of my grasp as I realise that it is Adrian they’re talking about, that somehow he’s been involved in an accident. Please don’t let it be too bad, I think, although it must be quite serious or the police wouldn’t be here. I stand up, ready to look for my car keys. ‘Where is he? I need to get there.’ Or maybe they’ll take me to the hospital in a police car. ‘Is he badly hurt? Was anyone else injured . . . ?’
‘Your husband was alone in the car, Mrs Blackwood. Or can we call you . . . ?’
‘Leah, yes, please call me Leah.’
‘Thank you, Leah. There was no other vehicle involved, and it looks as if your husband’s car skidded in the fog, left the road and crashed into a tree. visibility was poor, and driving conditions—’
I nod. ‘Yes, he said it was getting thicker when we spoke on the phone. Where is he now? I know he must be hurt, but can you just tell me how badly? I need to know.’
‘Maybe you should sit down again, Leah,’ PC Jacobs says, standing up and crossing the room. She takes my arm and gently steers me back towards the chair. ‘And if you can point Andy to the kitchen, he can make us all a cup of tea.’
Somehow, the evening passes and it’s almost two in the morning. I keep thinking they must be wrong, it must be a mistake. But if it wasn’t him in that car, who was it, and where is Adrian? I indulge myself with possible explanations – he changed his mind and took the car after all; was taken ill and decided to stay in Leeds; sent me a text that wasn’t delivered; lent the car to a colleague . . .
But deep down, I know.
I get into bed without undressing, and I just lie there, staring at the ceiling. After about an hour, I go back downstairs and sit in the kitchen, smoking. They’re sending a car for me at eight thirty. As soon as it’s light, I go up to sh
ower and brush my teeth. I shouldn’t have sat still for so long – my back is killing me. But even after I’ve showered and dressed in clean clothes, it’s still only just gone eight.
I smoke three more cigarettes as I wait for the car. It makes me feel a bit sick, but smoking is about all I’m capable of at the moment. The doorbell rings on the dot of eight thirty, and for a few seconds I can’t make myself move. If I don’t formally identify him, he can’t be dead. But then the bell goes again, longer this time, louder, so I drag myself upright and walk slowly across the hall to open the door.
As the soft-voiced policewoman leads me into the room, I realise that there’s still a small part of me that is convinced it won’t be Adrian’s face under that sheet, but some other poor man whose car skidded off the road in the fog. Then they turn the sheet back. It’s a cliché, I know, but he doesn’t look dead. Slightly paler than usual, maybe, but his features are undamaged and there’s no blood on his face, no horrible mangling of his limbs. It’s only when I lean down to kiss him that I see the dark mass of blood-matted hair at the side of his head. I hear myself gasp and my fist flies to my mouth. The policewoman makes soothing noises and gently rubs my back.
A few minutes later I’m sitting in a small, carpeted room with a cup of tea on the coffee table in front of me. The policewoman is sitting opposite, her face settled in a sympathetic expression. This one is older than me, I think. There are wrinkles around her eyes and she looks tired, and I wonder how many times she’s had to do this in her career. She’s put a box of tissues within easy reach, I notice, but I can’t seem to cry, even though I want to. ‘Is there anyone who can come and be with you, Leah? Anyone you’d like me to call?’
‘No, there isn’t anyone, really.’
‘Not your mum or dad?’
I shake my head. ‘My mum died when I was a kid and I lost my dad a couple of years ago.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘Do you not have—’
‘Paul! Oh God,’ I say aloud. ‘Adrian’s dad. I’ll have to call him.’
‘We can do that for you, if you like.’
I hesitate. ‘No, it’s okay, but thanks.’ And there’s his brother, Chris, and Richard, his oldest friend, and I’ll need to call his colleagues . . . a wave of sadness engulfs me and I almost reach for a tissue, but I still can’t let go of the tears.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THEN
The day after we booked the wedding, we went to meet his dad. My dad was away on a painting holiday, so we couldn’t tell him until the weekend anyway. I was so nervous, I hadn’t been able to eat a thing all day and my stomach had rumbled throughout two seminars and four tutorials, to the amusement of my students.
The house was lovely. It was in a little crescent in Nether Edge, set back from the road with a long, sweeping drive and surrounded by a pretty walled garden. Adrian had already told me his dad was sixty-five and had taken early retirement a few years ago. He’d taught history and politics, but now spent his time painting, playing guitar and walking in the Peaks. He was also learning jazz dance, apparently. He sounded fun.
‘Is that your dad’s car?’ I asked as we pulled up next to a low, sporty-looking red car parked right outside the house.
He turned off the engine. ‘Yes. It’s new – I think he’s trying to pull some woman at his dance class and he thought that would impress her.’
I checked my appearance in the rear-view mirror, tugging at a few wayward strands of hair.
‘You look great,’ he said, opening the car door. ‘Come on. Let’s go and give him the shock of his life.’
‘Adrian,’ I said as we walked up to the front door. ‘He is expecting us, isn’t he?’
He shook his head. ‘Nope. It’s a surprise.’
‘Oh no, really? Is that a good idea? Don’t you think you should call him first?’
‘No, it’ll be fine.’ He rang the bell. ‘He likes me just turning up. I never use my key without asking him, though – I don’t want to walk in and find him in flagrante delicto.’
The door opened to reveal a tall, good-looking man with a shock of white hair, wearing a loose flowery shirt over faded green cords. Unmistakably Adrian’s father – the features were identical. He looked from Adrian to me and back again. ‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘This is a nice surprise, I must say.’ He shook my hand warmly. ‘And whom do we have here?’
‘This is Leah, Dad. Leah, my dad – Paul.’
‘Lovely to meet you, Mr—’
‘Paul, please.’ He smiled. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Leah.’ He turned to Adrian and did that half-hug, half-handshake thing that men do.
‘Leah Moore, soon to be Leah Blackwood.’
His dad’s eyes widened and his grin spread across his face. ‘You’re engaged?’ He looked from one to the other of us again. ‘Now, you’re not teasing, are you?’
‘Nope. As of yesterday morning, Leah is officially my fiancée.’
Fiancée. I hadn’t thought of us as engaged, but I supposed we were. I tried it out in my head: This is Adrian, my fiancé.
‘In that case, congratulations!’ He patted Adrian’s back. ‘This is wonderful news. Come in, Leah, come in.’ He guided me into the house. ‘Adrian – see if there’s a bottle of something nice we can crack open, would you?’
I could feel myself smile, becoming more relaxed. His dad was lovely – why had I been nervous?
‘So, how did you two meet?’ He gestured to a chair.
I sat opposite him and explained how Adrian and I had been at Manchester at the same time, and how we’d met up again at Lucy’s wedding and had become close since then. Adrian came back with champagne in an ice bucket, but no one minded that it wasn’t properly chilled, so his dad opened it and poured us all a glass. We stood in the middle of the room as Paul cleared his throat and raised his glass. ‘Here’s to the two of you,’ he said. ‘And to a long and happy life together.’ We all took a sip and then sat down.
‘Now, have you thought about where and when? If you’re thinking of next year, you’ll need to get your skates on from what I hear.’
I glanced at Adrian. He was swirling his champagne around in his glass, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.
‘Christopher and Judy,’ his dad continued, then turned to me. ‘Have you met Adrian’s brother and his wife?’
‘Not yet, no.’
‘They married a little over a year ago, and if memory serves, they had to book almost two years in advance. Mind you, they had the ceremony at Kew Gardens, so it was quite—’ He stopped and looked at Adrian. ‘What is it?’ he said. ‘I know that expression. You don’t want to get married in a bloody football ground or something, do you?’ He turned to me. ‘Leah, I hope you’ll be a civilising influence on this boy of mine.’
At which point Adrian couldn’t contain himself any longer. ‘We’ve not only thought about the time and place, we’ve arranged it already. All booked up, deposit paid.’
His dad looked stunned for a moment, but then he took a mouthful of champagne and nodded. ‘Well, good for you. I suppose you’ve considered all the options.’
‘Yes,’ Adrian said. ‘We’ve considered all the options, waiting, not waiting—’ He caught my eye and I willed him to just say it. He must have read my expression, because then he said, ‘Sorry, I am teasing you a bit now. Thing is, we don’t want to wait a second longer than we have to, so we’re getting married in four weeks’ time.’
His dad spluttered, spilling champagne all down his shirt. Then he had a coughing fit. It would have been funny if it was some sitcom on the telly, but it wasn’t funny at all.
Adrian let go of my hand and we both jumped to our feet. ‘Are you all right, Dad? Shall I get you some water?’
‘Let’s just get some – where’s the kitchen?’
‘It’s okay, I’ll get it.’ Adrian hurried out of the room and I stood there, feeling awkward. I went over to Paul and put my hand on his back, wondering if I should thump him between the sh
oulder blades, but it wasn’t as though something was stuck in his throat, so I just patted his back gently. By the time Adrian came back, the coughing had begun to subside, but Paul was very red in the face as he sipped the water. ‘Gosh.’ He thumped his chest with his hand a couple of times. ‘Must have gone down the wrong way.’
‘Are you okay now?’ I leaned forward. ‘We didn’t mean to give you such a shock.’ I hoped he’d make light of it, laugh even. He nodded, touched my hand briefly in acknowledgement, then excused himself and went upstairs to change his shirt.
‘That went well.’ I slumped back in my chair.
‘Don’t worry.’ Adrian reached for the champagne and topped up our glasses. ‘He just needs some time to digest it, that’s all.’ He sounded so confident that I relaxed again. Paul came back a few minutes later in a fresh shirt, but when he sat down he didn’t pick up his replenished glass, nor was he smiling.
‘I thought you said you only met again at this wedding recently?’
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘It turns out we have quite a few friends in common.’
‘Yes,’ Adrian chipped in. ‘It’s surprising we haven’t bumped into each other before, really.’
‘But this was just two or three weeks ago, wasn’t it?’
We both nodded.
His dad picked up his glass then and took a sip. ‘And you’ve arranged a wedding for four weeks from now?’
‘Yes, four weeks today.’ Adrian’s voice had lost its light, everything’s-going-to-be-brilliant tone. ‘I know it’s a bit quick—’
‘A bit quick?’ His dad was looking only at Adrian now. ‘That is an understatement. So you will have known each other for a total of what, six weeks? Seven?’ He held up his hand to stop Adrian interrupting. ‘You’re going to argue that you met at university, but you know damn well that’s not relevant. The fact of the matter is that you have only really known each other for a few weeks.’ He took a swig of his champagne and plonked the glass back down, then ran his hand through his hair in exactly the same way Adrian did. ‘Look,’ he sighed, then leaned forward, arms resting on his knees and hands clasped together. ‘Adrian, Leah, I don’t want either of you to think that I have any objection to you marrying – I’m delighted, in fact. But this . . . this haste. Surely you can see why I’m concerned?’
The Flight of Cornelia Blackwood Page 3
