by Jenny Kane
Amy steered them towards the Victoria Terrace Café and sat Jack down, leaving him to ponder what she’d said while she ordered sandwiches for them both, giving herself the chance to gather some courage for the next bit of their conversation. Returning, Amy continued as if she hadn’t paused, ‘Then I saw you with that Tina.’
Jack’s head snapped up, ‘You saw that?’
Amy was almost whispering now, the facts still hurting after all this time. ‘Oh yes. Unintentionally, but I saw.’ She took a tiny bite of her sandwich and watched Jack’s stricken face. She had always thought he’d done it on purpose to convince her they were over. Apparently this had not been the case.
Chewing her bread, Amy pressed on with her side of the story. ‘So, I went home. I cried, wrote an essay and did some more crying. Revised, cried, did another essay, and cried. Passed my exams, cried, booked a ticket to Scotland on the sleeper, and cried. I spent a couple of nights in a youth hostel, cried, found cheap lodgings in Aberdeen’s student quarter and cried. I got a part-time admin post, which grew into a full-time marketing position and, about two months after that; I found I’d been so busy I’d stopped crying.’
Jack’s voice was small ‘I didn’t know you were there, in that pub, to see the Tina thing … you know … I mean, she just happened to be there, and she’d made it very clear she liked me. It was so easy. It was nothing. And I’m sorry. I truly didn’t intend it to hurt you.’
‘Does that make it better or worse, Jack?’ Amy managed a weak smile. She hadn’t found him again to start hating him. She’d tried to do that years ago, but hating him just didn’t seem like a possible option. ‘Jack, we were students. Kids, really. It hurt like hell, and I never ever want to feel like that again, but what did we know of life then? Nothing. The point is this: it’s selfish of me, perhaps, but I need you to understand how awful it is to live with the fact that the person you loved left because everything was going too well! Where is there to go relationship-wise after that?’
Jack shook his head sadly, ‘Did I really say that?’
‘You did.’
‘But you’re saying this like … um … like it’s so matter of fact. Aren’t you angry with me?’ Jack felt bewildered as he tried to understand the facts from Amy’s perspective.
‘I was, but I was angry with me more.’
‘What the hell did you do?’
‘I let you walk all over me. I was so damn blind when it came to you.’
Amy reached out a hand to reassure Jack, who was staring into his rapidly-cooling coffee. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I didn’t deserve you.’ His face was drawn as he looked back up at Amy.
‘Don’t talk rubbish.’
‘I assumed you’d rip into me today. I thought you’d accuse me of using you as an experiment or something.’ Kit’s bitter words rang out, echoing in Jack’s ears.
‘Jack, I have a million questions about the gay thing, and I may well ask you some of them one day. And I confess that my first reaction on receiving your note was to feel a bit lab-rat like, but not for very long.’ Amy stretched her hand out to Jack as she spoke. ‘Like I said, we were young. If you suspected you were homosexual back then, I doubt if you knew for sure, and you probably didn’t want to know anyway.’
‘It wasn’t really obvious to me at the time. I just knew something wasn’t quite right. I mean, I’d had heaps of girls, and I was in love with a woman. I loved you, so how could I be gay?’ He almost pleaded with Amy as he sat opposite her, hating himself more than ever for how he’d hurt her all those years ago, but knowing he’d had no control over it.
‘Did you?’
‘Of course I did! It’s like that Edwyn Collins song, “A Girl Like You”, and sometimes I wish …’
Holding up her hand, Amy interrupted. ‘Well, in that case your current sexuality status doesn’t matter, does it?’ She didn’t think it would help if they started on the “what ifs.”
Amy almost moved to hug him, but held back as she said, ‘I loved you too, and I wouldn’t have missed my time with you, not for a second. Now, come on, drink your coffee before it gets cold.’
Jack paused, not sure if he should continue, but they’d come this far, ‘It wasn’t just the gay thing. As you said, I wasn’t sure anyway.’
‘It wasn’t?’
‘I didn’t finish it because I thought I might be gay. How could I have? I didn’t know for certain then, did I.’
Amy’s mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. His uncertain sexuality had seemed to have answered all her questions so neatly. She could even have forgiven him the salt he’d rubbed into her wounds in the form of Tina. But now?
‘No, I didn’t admit that to myself for another few years. I went to this club in Nottingham and …’
Amy wasn’t listening. A blanket of new confusion was smothering her. Noticing that Amy wasn’t really with him, Jack stopped talking. He moved directly in front of her, and took both her hands. ‘You scared me.’
Dragged out of her illogical musings, Amy felt her blood chill a little. ‘Scared you?’
‘You loved me so much. I know you never said it, but I knew. It was sort of overwhelming.’
‘Well, as I said,’ Amy hid her face, staring at nothing in particular out of the window, ‘everything was potentially scary back then.’ She wiped her wounded expression away in a manner that reminded Jack scarily of Kit. ‘Come on you, we’ve got more walking to do, I want to see the Palm House.’
Returning home several hours later, Jack felt light-headed. He had been prepared for shouting, crying, disbelief, fear, and resentment – in fact, pretty much anything from Amy. But not acceptance.
None of his friends had given him a rough time when he came out, and for that he knew he was very lucky, but Amy had simply dismissed it, like being gay was normal. Which it was, but that still wasn’t a common reaction, even in these enlightened times. Relieved wasn’t even close to how he felt. He was happy. The spectre of Kit vied for his attention, but now he began to dare to hope all would be well there too. Now he had Amy. He had a female friend to help him understand.
They’d left the gardens once the cool afternoon air had begun to stretch its damp grasp beneath their coats, turning walking into a chore and not a pleasure. As Jack sat in his own small garden, breathing in the sharp evening air, he reflected on the day now past. They must have circumnavigated Kew so many times they could have been going for the world record, before they had passed through the exit and, arm in arm, ambled towards his shop.
Amy had told him that she’d been past the door of Reading Nature a couple of times already, and had admired and praised the shop exactly as he’d hoped she would. They had chatted to Rob who, thrilled to see them so comfortable together, was most effusive about how nice it was to see Jack smiling after being such a misery for weeks. Jack had interrupted Rob, not wanting him to raise the subject of Kit. That conversation could happen next time he met Amy; now that he was confident that there would be a next time. More walks, more coffee stops, more chats. He could hardly wait.
The best bit of the day had happened as they’d said goodbye. Amy had turned to him, ‘Jack?’
‘Yes?’
‘The tape. The music you added at the end.’
Jack cautiously asked, ‘Was it OK?’
‘It was perfect. Thank you.’
He had hugged her then, and the tension of the past weeks began to un-knot and drain away.
Crawling into bed, without the idea of clubbing even crossing his mind, Jack smiled to himself. Amy. He still loved her. She still loved him. But it was a different kind of love now. Better even.
As sleep claimed him, Jack’s brain began to flick through his vast mental catalogue of music. There must be a song that sums this situation up perfectly...
Twenty-six
October 23rd 2006
Kit looked down at the notebook. It was not the black book with interesting white swirls spattered across one corner that she usually
used. That notebook was at home on top of her study bookshelf, out of the sight of children and inquisitive husbands. This was a new notebook. It was bright orange with silver stars splashed across it. Even the cover seemed optimistic. It was for her novel, and it was filling up fast.
Between her numerous coffees and rapid swaying of opinions over the last few days, Kit had concluded that, if she planned her time more efficiently, took less breaks to see Jack (no longer a problem anyway), and ignored the housework even more than usual, she could continue to honour her contract with Pearls, and satisfy her need to crack on with her new project. The problem with the novel, now Kit had hit upon a plot that was going somewhere, was that it seemed to consume her. She was already resenting the hours she sacrificed to cooking and cleaning.
She’d have to make more of an effort to talk to Phil; he’d always been so supportive of her writing. Kit had attempted to chat to him about it several times, but something always seemed to get in the way. Maybe she’d have better luck tonight?
Sitting at his desk at the end of another hectic Monday, Phil surveyed the small square office before him. It was an airy, open-plan, and friendly place in which to work. The computers at each of the four other work stations had been off for almost an hour now. He was the only one left.
It was a good team, he thought. From just him, a laptop, and a desk in a rented room above a hairdresser’s twelve years ago, Phil had expanded his continually-growing business. The end result was these nice premises in a shared office block near Clapham Junction, a handful of employees, and numerous satisfied landlords and tenants. Naturally there had been problems, a fair few in the early days, and the occasional crisis to sort out – but these days they were few and far between. Home Hunters had built up a reputation, and it was a very good one.
As well as the residential private lets, oil companies across Scotland and America used them regularly to provide short-term lets for business clients. They in turn usually recommended them to other businesses that needed accommodation for their own visiting employees in London. Yes, Phil was a success, and he had never been so well-off financially.
‘So why am I so fed up?’ he demanded of the empty space in front of him.
He had intended to talk to Kit about his dissatisfaction with work last night, but Tom had been stuck on his maths homework, and Kit had been grumpily ironing. By the time he’d read to Helena and helped Kit threaten both twins to stay in bed and not keep popping downstairs for extra juice and biscuits, he’d been too tired for an in-depth discussion about anything, let alone their future. The problem was that this sort of thing happened every evening.
Perhaps it would be OK tonight. He’d try anyway.
Kit was singing. Phil could hear her as he walked up the short block-paved driveway to their Victorian red-brick semi. She’d have her MP3 player plugged into her ears. Kit had many talents, but singing was definitely not one of them. Phil winced as he opened the front door in time to hear her failing to hit the high notes with Robbie Williams.
As she spotted her husband, Kit turned off her device of musical torture and gave him a squeeze. ‘Hi love, good day?’ Kit bustled about around the kitchen, making them both a hot drink and checking that the casserole she’d put in the oven two hours ago was cooking nicely.
‘Yeah, fine. You?’
‘Not bad at all. I’d like to talk to you later. The thing is …’
‘Mum!’ Helena’s shrill voice severed the air as she marched into the room.
‘What is it this time?’ Kit snapped. She suspected she was being unfair, but every time Helena opened her mouth these days, it seemed to be to whine.
‘I’ve spilt my juice.’
‘Oh, great!’ Kit grabbed a cloth and towel and ran into the living room, in time to see a lake of blackcurrant squash soaking into her beige sofa cushions.
‘Can’t you be more careful?’ she snapped.
‘I didn’t mean to drop it, Mum.’
Kit didn’t trust herself to reply, as she shooed the children away, and took the sticky cushions off the sofa into the kitchen.
Phil grimaced, ‘Looks like I arrived in time for a healthy dose of real life.’
‘Ha bloody ha.’ Kit struggled to free the cushions from their loose covers and stuff them into the washing machine.
‘What did you want to talk about?’ Phil asked as he watched Kit set the machine’s washing cycle.
‘What? Oh, that’ll have to wait now; as you say, this is real life.’
Phil bit back a flippant remark when he saw Kit’s face, and decided he’d better stop standing there with his cup of tea and do something useful. As he put knives and forks on the dinner table, he suppressed a sigh. Unless things improved pretty quickly, it didn’t look as if he’d be talking to Kit about their future tonight either.
Twenty-seven
October 24th 2006
‘Peggy? Peg? What’s up?’
Something wasn’t quite right. Peggy wasn’t humming to the radio that should be leaking out of the kitchen. But then the radio wasn’t on. She wasn’t swearing at the cappuccino machine as she tried to clean its various parts. She wasn’t dusting, or cleaning tables, or doling out sachets of sugar to the bowls on each table. It was ten-past nine in the morning, but Peggy was just sitting there, staring into space.
‘Peg?’ Kit felt fear ooze up her spine, ‘Peggy?’
Peggy turned to Kit, silent tears cascading down her blotchy face, ‘Oh, Kit.’ She spoke with such despair that Kit felt her heart constrict.
‘Tell me.’ Kit grasped Peggy’s clenched fist, which wrung her apron between shaking fingers. ‘Tell me, please.’
‘Scott. It’s my Scott.’
‘Oh, my God.’ Kit’s concern turned to panic. ‘What about Scott?’
‘There … there’s been an accident.’ Peggy couldn’t say anymore, the words stuck in her throat as, exhausted, she dissolved into a sobbing heap on Kit’s shoulder.
Eventually Kit freed herself from Peggy’s shaking body, got up, made sure the closed sign was up, bolted the door from the inside, and rushed back to her friend.
Crisis after crisis ricocheted around Kit’s head, what sort of accident? Car, tube, train? Anyone else hurt? She hadn’t heard the news that morning; had there been another bomb? Phil? The kids? She shook herself. No. An accident, Peggy had said. She clutched at her friend’s hunched-over form. ‘Peggy, please talk to me. Was it a car accident? Where is Scott now?’
‘Royal Free Hospital, I …’
Peggy collapsed again as Kit, holding her close, fished her mobile from her pocket and tapped in Phil’s number, silently chanting ‘please answer, please answer’ as the phone rang and rang. ‘Come on!’
Just as the answer service was about to come on Phil mercifully picked up, ‘Hey Kit, you got writer’s block?’
‘What?’ Kit felt confused. What was he on about?
‘Well, you never call me in the day unless you can’t write.’
‘Please, Phil! Thank goodness you’re there.’
Picking up on his wife’s distressed tone, Phil was all attention. ‘Is it the kids? What’s going on?’
‘No, not the kids, thank God, but I’m at the café. Peggy’s incoherent, there’s been an accident. Something’s happened to Scott. Can you get here? Please, love. Can you come?’
Thanking a God he had no belief in that the trains seemed to be waiting for him one by one, Phil sprinted from the station towards Richmond’s main street, before heading down the lane to Pickwicks. Kit was sitting in the middle of the room, her arms around Peggy. He banged on the window, startling both of them.
‘I am so glad to see you.’ Kit enveloped herself in Phil’s welcome embrace, whispering, ‘I can’t get a word out of her. She should be with Scott, or with a doctor. I think she’s in shock.’
Phil knelt down next to Peggy. He gently held her cold hands, ‘Hey, Peg. Can you tell me where Scott is, I need to see him?’
Peggy’s eyes tried to
focus, ‘Phil?’
Phil spoke as if coaxing a frightened child. ‘That’s right, Peg. Where’s Scott? I really need him, love.’
‘Not here.’
‘OK, so he’s where?’
‘Hospital. They said I should come home. Said I should sleep. How can I sleep? Stupid.’ Peggy’s grief turned to sudden fury and confusion, and then died away again to mumbled terror. ‘So I came here. I’m not sure why now. Except I always come here, so I came here.’
‘Of course, quite right.’ Phil smiled at Peggy, smoothed her un-brushed hair with his palm and pulled back to talk to Kit. ‘I think you’re right, she’s in shock. What the hell were they thinking of letting her come home alone? Which hospital do you think he’d be in?’
‘She muttered something about the Royal Free earlier.’
‘I’m going to call them.’
‘But they won’t tell you anything.’
‘They will if I say I’m his brother or something. Where’s the phone?’
‘But that only works on the telly, not in real life!’ Kit took off her fleece-lined coat and wrapped it around Peggy’s shivering shoulders. She could faintly hear Phil talking on the phone in the kitchen. He seemed to have been on the phone for ages. Every now and then he raised his voice, but she was grateful that he’d not started shouting; they’d only have hung up on him.
A fresh knock sounded on the door as Phil came back through to the café. It was the new waitress. Kit had forgotten all about her. Customers had just come, shrugged when they saw the closed sign, and wandered off to pastures new. The new girl would require an explanation.
‘Hey, that’s Amy! The girl from the house share.’ Phil, his face grave from the information he’d convinced the hospital Sister to give him, waved at the waitress as he opened the door, ‘Hello again, what are you doing here?’
‘I work here.’ Amy looked around her, ‘What’s going on, Mr Lambert?’
