by A J McDine
As the dawn chorus begins I give up any hope of sleep, even though it’s my rostered day off and I could have enjoyed a guilt-free lie in. I pad downstairs, flick the kettle on and reach for the teabags. Unlocking the back door, I take my tea into the garden, hardly noticing that the dew is soaking my bare feet. I sit on the love seat under the Japanese flowering cherry at the end of the garden and rest the mug on my bump. There’s a swirling sensation as the baby shifts inside me.
Hidden in the branches above my head a blackbird is singing its heart out. The tree was heavy with shell-pink blossom when we first viewed the house six years ago. Matt loved the red-bricked Victorian semi’s spacious rooms and proximity to the station, but I fell in love with the cherry blossom. It reminded me of Nakameguro in Tokyo where cherry trees, lit by lanterns after dark, line the canal.
We were planning to go there together, Ed and I, after we’d finished our A-levels. Not for us the usual gap year destinations of Thailand and Australia. We wanted to explore Japan, visit Buddist temples, buy sashimi from street-sellers and ride the bullet train from south to north. We never stopped to consider how much it would cost to travel across one of the most expensive countries in the world. We thought we were so grown up, but we were naive, artless. I went on my own in the end, although I had to spend a couple of years working as a waitress to save up first.
Japan was everything I hoped it would be and more. And although he was two years into his law degree at UCL by then, I felt Ed’s presence as I took baths in Japanese onsen and climbed to the summit of Mount Fuji.
I hope with all my heart that I’ve read too much into the photo and that Ed’s in remission. If he is, would he see me? There’s so much I wish I’d said to him when we were kids, so much I bottled up inside because I thought it was for the best. Like an aggressive cancer, regret has eaten me up from the inside for decades. Only now, happy with Matt and seven-and-a-half months pregnant, I’m finally hovering on the verge of contentment. Perhaps making my peace with Ed would bury my remaining demons.
The pips for the ten o’clock news have barely finished beeping when there’s a knock at the door. I know without looking through the spy hole that it’ll be Roz, here for my cut and colour. Roz is one of those precise people who always arrive exactly on time, not a minute early, not a minute late. Like a Japanese bullet train. Not like me. My reputation for tardiness is a standing joke among all who know me. That’s not to say I like being late because I don’t. But I can’t seem to crack punctuality.
Roz’s preciseness is one of the things I admire about her. She’s fastidious to the point of being anal, but that’s a pretty good trait to have in a hairdresser. I went to Toni and Guy for years, it was my one extravagance, but you don’t get much change from a hundred quid for highlights and a cut and blow dry, and when we signed up for the latest round of IVF I was happy to sacrifice my trips to the salon.
Finding Roz was serendipitous. A couple of months after I decided I couldn’t afford Toni and Guy, a flyer was pushed through the letterbox advertising her mobile hairdressing business. Thirty quid for a cut and colour, and all in the comfort of my own home. I rang the number there and then.
Roz has been cutting my hair for almost eight months now and we’ve become friends. We meet in Canterbury for a coffee every couple of weeks. I was taken aback when Roz first suggested it, the second time she cut my hair.
‘Too soon?’ she said, her head cocked to one side.
‘Of course not,’ I replied. Tell the truth, I was flattered. I was also lonely. Matt hadn’t long started working in Brighton and my days felt empty without him.
We have lots in common, me and Roz. She, too, is small and dark-haired, although she’s more fine-boned than me. Matt always jokes I have the hands of a farmer. She went through several rounds of IVF with her husband Phil, just like me and Matt, and they now have a beautiful toddler, Caitlyn, who goes to a childminder when Roz is working.
Having been through IVF she knows what it’s like to yearn for a baby above all else. She has experienced the unadulterated joy of a positive pregnancy test and tasted the salty tears of disappointment. She is happy to pore over grainy scan photos, pointing out fingers and toes with wonder when others would have glazed over in boredom. She reminds me to eat properly and rest up when I’m tired. She reassures me when I’m anxious.
Roz is only thirty-two but she’s a wise head on young shoulders, as my mum used to say. I often find myself offloading to her. She is always so sympathetic, listening intently as she considers my latest beef with Angela or quarrel with Matt and offering down to earth advice.
I smile as I undo the door chain and let her in. As usual her arms are full of bags and cases. It’s amazing how much equipment she carries around with her.
‘Let me take that,’ I say, reaching for a black holdall.
‘Not in your condition.’
I give the bag a half-hearted tug but she’s surprisingly strong. Admitting defeat, I close the door and follow her into the kitchen.
‘Was the patch test OK? No irritation?’ she says, whipping a sheet of PVC from the holdall and laying it on the kitchen floor.
I hold my ear back so she can inspect my skin. She nods. ‘Looks good to me.’
‘Do we really need to do a patch test each time? I’ve been using the same brand for years with no problem. It would save you a journey.’
‘Can’t be too careful. I don’t want to risk you having a serious allergic reaction, do I? And you know I don’t mind.’
I flick the kettle on while she’s unloading mixing bowls and brushes, dye and scissors. Strong black coffee for Roz, another cup of tea for me. She takes the mugs, motions me to sit down and wraps a towel around my shoulders. It’s nice to be mothered, even if it’s only for an hour or so every couple of months.
Roz starts telling me about Caitlyn’s first proper pair of sandals and how she surprised the young assistant at Clarks by opting for blue not pink. But I can’t concentrate on her story. Ed’s atrophied face is dominating my thoughts.
‘I don’t think she’s going to be a girly girl, if you know what I mean?’ Roz says. And then, ‘Sophie, are you alright?’
I only realise she has asked me because she has stopped applying colour to my roots and her hand, encased in a copper-stained latex glove, is resting on my shoulder.
‘Of course I am.’
‘You’re very quiet. There’s nothing wrong with the baby is there?’
I rub my belly. ‘No, the baby’s fine. I didn’t sleep well last night, that’s all. Too hot, I expect.’
‘Good. Not that you didn’t sleep.’ She laughs. ‘You know what I mean.’ She rinses her gloves under the tap and checks her watch. ‘Half an hour should do it. Fancy another cup?’
I shake my head. ‘Roz, can I ask you something?’
‘Sure, fire away.’
‘Do you keep in touch with your exes?’
She spins around and shoots me a curious look. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Do you?’ I press.
‘Depends what you mean by keeping in touch.’
I shrug. ‘I don’t know. Not meeting up to reminisce about old times. Following them on Facebook, I suppose. Perhaps the odd text.’
She takes a sip of her coffee and watches me, her lips pressed together. ‘Is there something you want to get off your chest? A problem shared and all that.’
I blush and I know she’s noticed because she stares into her mug to give me time to compose myself.
‘When I was seventeen I fell in love with a boy at school. We split up for reasons I won’t bore you with and he ended up marrying my best friend.’
‘Ouch,’ says Roz with feeling. ‘That must have been hard to swallow.’
‘It was,’ I agree. ‘Ed and Lou, a double betrayal. But I got over it eventually and met Matt. And you know the rest.’
‘I do indeed. So why are we talking about your childhood sweetheart?’
‘I lost touch with them both.
Haven’t seen them for twenty-odd years. They moved to the US. And then I saw their son in Fenwick the other day. I tracked Lou down on Facebook and it looks like Ed has cancer.’
‘And?’ says Roz.
‘They’ve moved back to Canterbury… ’
‘And you’re wondering whether you should get back in touch?’ Roz finishes.
My shoulders slump. ‘That’s about the sum of it, yes.’
‘What are you worried about?’
‘That it’ll upset Matt, upset the equilibrium.’
Roz raises her eyebrows.
‘I wouldn’t like it if he got back in touch with an old girlfriend,’ I say.
‘I don’t suppose you would.’ She aligns her scissors and comb on the kitchen table. ‘So, don’t contact them.’
‘But what if Ed’s still alive?’
‘You think he might be dead?’
‘He looked so ill in the photo I saw, and I’ve no idea how long ago it was taken.’
Roz picks up a shank of my hair and inspects it. ‘Another ten minutes,’ she says. ‘So, do contact them then.’
‘But what if -’
‘Sophie,’ she says in exasperation. ‘Where’s your laptop?’
‘On the dining room table. Why?’
She disappears, reappearing seconds later with my laptop under her arm. She plonks herself on the chair opposite me, her hands poised over the keyboard.
‘Password?’ she demands.
‘Camomile nineteen seventy-eight. Why, what are you doing?’
‘You obviously want to see Ed again, so I’m helping things along.’
‘What?’ I cry in alarm.
Ignoring me, she peers at the screen. I curse silently, remembering I left Josh’s Facebook page open.
‘I see what you mean. He does look on death’s door. I’m guessing Lou Sullivan is your Lou?’
‘She’s not my Lou. What are you doing?’
‘I’m sending a message to Not-Your-Lou saying you’ve heard she’s back in town and asking if she fancies meeting up for a coffee sometime.’ Roz smiles. ‘There, all sorted.’
Part of me is speechless. I can’t believe what she’s done. I don’t want to become entangled in the Sophie-Ed-Lou triangle again. It ended so catastrophically last time. But part of me is relieved. From the moment I saw Josh I’ve been vacillating between contacting my old friends and staying well away. At least this way, if it all goes wrong it’s not my fault. I didn’t start it.
I am not culpable.
When I was a small cog in a large corporate wheel I was well-versed in the four stages of successful project management.
Initiation, when you identify a need, problem or opportunity and brainstorm ways that you could meet that need, solve the problem or seize the opportunity. A bit of blue-sky thinking involved here, if you’ll pardon the jargon.
Planning, the vital second stage, when you break your project into smaller tasks, identify the timeline and anticipate risks and potential problems that could throw your carefully-planned project off-track. Working through a myriad of potential outcomes and scenarios, covering all the bases. Asking yourself what if - and having a quick fix in place if needed. Anyone will tell you planning is the most crucial part of any project.
Execution, the third stage, when you action your plan and it finally becomes a reality. If you’ve done your homework this stage should be a breeze, a veritable walk in the park.
And, last of all, closure, when you sit back and assess the success of the project. Did you meet the need? Did you solve the problem?
Did you seize the opportunity?
Chapter Six
Now
Matt seems tired and distracted. The journey from Brighton took an hour longer than usual due to a shunt on the M25. To make matters worse the air conditioning in his old Volvo packed up halfway along the A249. I was debating whether to begin dinner without him when he let himself in the front door just before eight. He handed me his bag of dirty laundry and I joked, ‘I remember when you used to give me flowers.’
It was the wrong thing to say.
‘I tell you what, I’ll do it,’ he said, snatching the bag back.
‘Don’t over-react. It was a joke. Give it to me.’
I tried to wrestle it from him and we had a ridiculous tug of war until I gave up and said, ‘Suit yourself. But make sure you don’t put the colours and whites in together again.’
He muttered something under his breath and I left him to it.
As I serve up our overdone lasagne and pour him an extra-large glass of wine I wonder how we’ve managed to get the weekend off to a bad start already, without even trying. It’s happening more and more. The smallest slight can escalate into an argument and before I know it we’re bickering like siblings. But I refuse to go down that well-trodden path tonight. Instead I paste a smile on my face and carry his tray into the sitting room where he is slumped on the sofa watching a re-run of Top Gear.
‘Your favourite. Sorry it’s a bit on the dry side.’
‘I suppose that’s my fault, too,’ he says, taking the tray from me, his eyes still on the television.
‘That’s not what I meant.’ I perch on the coffee table in front of him so he can’t avoid me. ‘Come on, Matt. I’ve been looking forward to seeing you all week. Let’s not fight tonight. Please?’
He finally looks at me. His skin is pale, save for the dark circles under his eyes. He looks knackered.
‘Alright.’
‘Sorry for before. I really was only joking.’
‘Sorry I snapped,’ he says. ‘Bitch of a day.’
‘Trouble at t’mill?’
‘I’ve been tipped off by Susie at head office that the regional manager is making a “surprise” visit on Monday.’ Matt draws speech marks in the air with his knife and fork. ‘I’m expecting a bollocking. There’s no getting away from the fact that our figures are down.’
‘Surely that’s down to the economy, not you?’
‘Maybe. But Mike’s the type of grade A dickhead who likes to blame everyone but himself. I’m pretty confident it’ll be yours truly in the firing line. Aren’t you eating anything?’
I smack my palm against my forehead. ‘I told you my brain is mush at the moment. I’ll go and get mine.’
The kitchen is in darkness, but I don’t bother to switch on the light. As I reach into the cupboard for my tray Matt’s phone lights up. I’m surprised he’s left it in the kitchen. He’s usually glued to the damn thing. I glance at the screen and put the phone on the tray along with my plate and a glass of water and carry them into the sitting room.
‘Your phone just rang but it was on silent so I didn’t hear it, I’m afraid. Unknown caller.’
‘Probably work,’ he says through a mouthful of lasagne. He swipes the phone and places it face down on the coffee table in front of him.
‘At this time of night?’
He shrugs. ‘Probably. Or it’s some loser telling me I’ve been involved in an accident -’
‘That wasn’t your fault -’ I play along.
‘And I may be entitled to some compensation,’ Matt finishes. It’s only when he smiles - his first this evening - that I realise just how strained he looked before.
‘Is everything OK?’
‘Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?’
The last thing I want to do is start another argument so I choose my words carefully. ‘You look a bit tired. Is it too much - the job, living in digs, that long drive? Because we can talk about moving again. I don’t mind.’
‘We’ve been over it a million times. We love this house. Prices are so high in Brighton we’d barely afford a two-bedroom flat. You love your job.’ He ticks the list off on his fingers. ‘I only ever saw the job as the next step up the ladder. As soon as a position comes up closer to home I’ll ask for a transfer. I just have to bide my time.’
‘But it could take years. And this is killing you. Let’s at least get an estate agent around to value th
is place.’
Matt shakes his head. I push the lasagne around my plate. Matt’s right. I do love our house and I’d hate to leave Cam. But I’d do it for him, for our little family.
‘We’ve got enough on our plate what with the baby coming. I’m not throwing a house move into the mix. The subject’s closed, OK?’ Matt places his knife and fork together and slides the tray onto the coffee table next to his phone. ‘What else is new?’
This is the perfect opportunity to tell him about seeing Josh and tracking down Ed on Facebook. I almost do. Almost, but not quite. We never had the ‘how many lovers have you had’ conversation when we first got together. It seemed a bit tacky to broach it and Matt never asked. He’s a very private person. In fact, he hardly talks about his past at all and I’ve always respected that. And for the moment I’m more than happy to keep the topic safely buried.
‘Angela’s been on the warpath again, wanting to vet my talk for the recruitment evening, can you believe it!’
Matt tuts. He has no time for Angela. ‘Don’t let that silly bint get under your skin. Everyone knows you basically run the place. You organise the volunteers, you oversee the grant applications, you’re responsible for the planting plans and rotas. Angela knows that too, so she’s trying to exert what little control she has by micro-managing you.’
‘I wish she wouldn’t. I’m nervous enough as it is. What if she completely re-writes my presentation?’
‘She won’t. She’s far too idle. When’s the big day?’
‘Wednesday.’
I know it’s irrational but the very thought of giving a talk to a roomful of people fills me with dread. This is Cam’s first ever recruitment evening and as deputy manager I’m in charge of volunteers, so it’s fallen on me to give the presentation. I’ve spent hours preparing it, trying to paint a picture of the vital work we do for people like Rosie and Martin. I’m pleased with the result, but whether I’ll be able to deliver it is another matter.
