by A J Waines
I dragged the tartan blanket through the gap between the seats and wrapped it around me, like I was tucking up a baby in a pram. I felt better inside the woollen cocoon. Not just warmer, but safer, somehow. Neither of us said anything and he continued driving. I wasn’t sure what we’d decided, where we were heading.
‘You’ll be doing me a favour, to be honest,’ he said. ‘It’s my daughter’s birthday soon and I don’t know what to get her. The place I have in mind has jewellery stalls and knickknacks outside. Maybe you can help me find something?’ He glanced across at me, an imploring look in his eyes.
‘Yeah – sure. I can do that, but not for long.’
‘Thank you.’
Why was he asking me – a complete stranger? But, having accepted the lift, I felt obliged to follow through.
‘How old is your daughter?’
‘Nineteen.’
We pulled into a small square that looked like it was reserved for private parking and stopped. He slid a large umbrella out from behind his seat and hurried round to help me out.
‘You okay walking?’
‘Yes. Honestly, I’m fine.’ I’d done enough playacting and walked on without the limp.
‘This way – I know a short-cut,’ he said.
It was warm under cover of the glass barrel-vaulted roof, but he insisted on giving me his jacket. I wrapped it dubiously around my shoulders, aware of the subtle smell of expensive cloth and something else that reminded me of Turkish Delight.
We wandered around the stalls.
‘What sort of thing are you looking for?’ I asked.
‘A silver or gold necklace. Petite. Understated. Nothing too garish.’
‘Does that describe your daughter?’
He ran his finger along his chin. ‘I suppose it does, yes.’
He picked up a silver chain with a cat on the end of it. ‘How about this?’ he said.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Too ‘young’. You want something more sophisticated.’
‘You’re right. Elegant, delicate.’
Dr Hansson was assiduous in his task, carefully vetting every section of the well-stocked stalls. It was hard to imagine either of my parents ever spending this amount of time choosing a present for me. They’d always given me money on special occasions. Even as a young child I was handed a padded envelope at Christmas and birthdays, neatly wrapped in sparkly paper and a ribbon. Like it was a surprise.
‘So you can get exactly what you want, dear,’ my mother used to say, patting me on the head.
So you don’t have to bother to find out what I’d like, I didn’t say in response.
I called Dr Hansson over. ‘How about this?’ I pointed to a necklace hanging inside a glass case. The silver pendant was twisted into a loose knot, with an opal set in the centre.
As he looked at it, I found myself scrutinising his face, trying to judge his response.
His wistful stare lasted several seconds, then he nipped his lips together. ‘It’s perfect,’ he said, something catching in his throat. He spoke to the vendor, pulled out a credit card and paid. I was surprised by the tender way he took the bundle of tissue paper.
Having done him the favour, I turned towards the exit. He nudged my elbow. ‘Come on.’ He indicated a small bar at the far end of the market. ‘This place is new – let’s give it a try – then I’ll take you home, I promise.’
I took a moment to consider it. Our encounter felt a million miles away from the one in the canteen and he’d given me a plausible reason for that. Besides, it was still pouring down.
We found seats by the window with a view of the Thames. The skin of the river was ragged and torn with the ferocity of the rain.
‘Thank you for choosing the necklace. That has set my mind at rest. What can I get you? Is it okay to call you Sam, by the way?’
‘If you like. I’ll have a small brandy, please.’
‘Good choice,’ he said. ‘Me too.’
He came back with the drinks and sat opposite me on a small stool. ‘Let’s drink to…family,’ he said. ‘And I’m Leo, okay?’
‘To family,’ I said quietly. In the light of my current situation with Miranda, his choice of toast struck me as ironic. We chinked glasses. I glanced down at the broad ring on his wedding finger. I wondered why he’d asked me, and not his wife, to choose a gift for his daughter.
He took another sip of brandy. I followed suit and felt the heat as the alcohol trickled down my throat and entered my bloodstream. I felt like I was slipping into a warm bath. I was practically dry now, self-conscious however, that my hair remained plastered to my head like seaweed. To anyone looking over, Dr Hansson probably looked like a rich pervert who had picked up a down-and-out from cardboard city. I smiled at how deceptive appearances could be.
‘What’s funny?’ he asked. There was a little spark of challenge in his eyes.
‘I was thinking what a pair we must look.’ I looked down at the oversized jacket still wrapped around me. ‘Well – me, actually.’
‘You’re dressed in Gucci – you should be honoured.’
I rubbed the cloth between my fingers. ‘Very nice. I’m hardly doing it justice.’
My phone came to life just as someone turned the music up. It was Con.
‘Sorry – better get this.’
Leo tapped my shoulder, mimed holding a glass and disappeared to the bar.
‘Where are you?’ said Con, in a flat tone.
‘Er – on my way home.’
‘It sounds like there’s a party going on…’
‘It’s pouring down. Someone gave me a lift. We…stopped off for a quick drink.’
I knew exactly what was coming next. Who was I with? A Man? Who was he? Who else was there? The usual twenty questions. I took a deep breath and stumbled my way through them. By the time I got to the end I realised the phone was dead.
‘Bad news?’ said Leo.
I pulled a face at him and switched the phone off. ‘Do you have to go?’ he added with concern.
‘No,’ I answered straight away. I was staying exactly where I was. I’d done nothing wrong and I was finding Leo’s company strangely comforting.
We went on to talk about the hospital, about psychology and his interest in research. We finished our drinks and he asked if I wanted another. ‘I know I said we’d leave,’ he said, ‘but do we have to?’
I caught myself realising that this out-of-hours version of Leo was surprisingly engaging. His approach was personal without being intrusive; he asked me difficult questions that made me think. And he listened and evaluated my responses. I liked that. So much better than the idle chit-chat I often had with colleagues.
‘I’ve probably got time for a coffee,’ I said, taking my purse from my handbag.
‘I’m rather enjoying myself. And it’s nice to have company.’ He tapped his lip, toying with the idea of saying something. ‘By the way, I saw you looking at my wedding ring. My wife isn’t at home waiting for me, in case you’re wondering.’
‘Right…’ I didn’t know what to say.
‘She’s in St Luke’s, as it happens. Acute lymphocytic leukaemia.’
‘Oh – I’m so sorry.’
His eyes fell down to his empty glass and he twirled it in his hand. I could see he didn’t want to talk about it.
I got up. ‘I’ll get the coffees.’
The music got louder and the place filled up. Before long, we decided to share a Mediterranean platter: hummus, vine leaves, olives and pitta breads. I couldn’t believe it when he said it was nearly ten-thirty. We got in the car and he drove me all the way to my front gate.
As I handed back his jacket, I realised I’d seen no trace of arrogance in him, this evening. Not once. Instead, under his impressive exterior, there was something damaged and out of reach. It was hard to say what exactly, but it was familiar. There was a tender spot inside me that was just the same.
Surprise, surprise – I got back to find Miranda sprawled on the sofa with her sho
es on, watching what looked like a horror film. My eyes ran a hasty scan around the place, looking for signs of disruption.
‘Nice evening?’ she said, as I dropped my bag on the comfy chair. ‘Someone got soaking wet.’
I hadn’t looked in a mirror all evening and slid in front of the one outside the bathroom.
‘Bloody hell!’ I said, lifting up clumps of my rats-tail hair. How on earth had Leo taken me seriously?
‘Bad enough to scare pets and small children,’ sniggered Miranda.
‘You need talk. What’s this?’ A green monster, dripping in a glutinous substance, lurched towards the camera. ‘Should you be watching this sort of thing?’
‘Will it turn me into a raving lunatic again, do you mean?’
‘No – just that…’ I sniffed. ‘Sorry.’
‘Can I get you anything?’ she said stretching.
‘I’m okay, thanks.’
‘Con okay?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Only, he rang…’
The hairs shot up on the back of my neck. ‘What did he say?’
‘Not much.’ It must have been before he tried my mobile.
The credits began to roll at the end of the film. ‘Who was it?’ she said, sitting up.
‘Who was who?’
She arched an eyebrow. ‘The guy I know you were with tonight.’
Chapter 12
Stepping off the train at Brighton station felt like I was gliding through a magical curtain into another life. I was no longer Dr Samantha Willerby, the dedicated and scrupulous clinical psychologist. I was a woman in the throes of passion and I was planning on abandoning myself to it for the entire weekend.
Once we’d left our bags at the hotel, Con and I headed straight down to the beach. It wasn’t cold in the least, but the wind buffeting across the great expanse of sea gave us an excuse to huddle together and wrap our arms around each other. He was just the right height for my head to nestle onto his shoulder. I shut my eyes and listened to the seagulls.
‘I hate the noise they make,’ I said. ‘They sound so distressed.’
‘You spend too much time with messed-up people,’ he said. ‘When did you last have a decent break?’
I didn’t need to think about it. ‘It’s been ages.’
‘You see – you need to come away with me more often. Every month or so, from now on.’ My heart did a little skip at the way he was including me in his future.
A group of noisy gulls swooped across our path. They dived at clumps of seaweed, taking strands of it with them.
‘What do you want to do tonight?’ he said, his mass of hair tossed back by the breeze. I could have listened to his deep, chocolaty voice for hours; with our bodies pressed together, it resonated inside my breastbone.
‘A nice meal somewhere?’ I suggested.
‘It has to be expensive – I want to treat you.’
Was this by way of an apology for being so suspicious recently? If so, he didn’t say. ‘Then an early night, I think.’ He raised an eyebrow.
He stopped, held my hands together against my blouse and slowly dropped his head, drifting towards me. His lips brushed mine, then he pressed harder, letting his tongue meet mine. It was delivered with a tenderness I’d barely experienced before, yet also with an undercurrent of greed. A heady mix of sensitivity and raw desire. Whenever I was with him, I had this same tight feeling of anticipation, aching for the moment when I could fully lose myself in him.
Over dinner, we spent a while simply catching up.
‘Got anyone yet for the flat?’ I asked. Con’s last flatmate had been a nightmare. A total slob who used to leave his dirty socks on the draining board. He’d left Con in a hurry, owing rent.
‘Got a couple of possibles,’ he said. ‘People linked to the Young Vic. It’s always a risk when you don’t know someone.’ He held his fork a few inches from his mouth and looked at me, pointedly.
‘I’ve got my own place, Con. I love it.’ I tore a chunk from my roll. ‘Besides – it’s too soon.’ I chewed it and smiled. ‘Maybe one day…’
‘Is that a promise?’
I tipped my head on one side and didn’t answer.
‘How’s your arm?’ I said, after I saw him fiddle with the dressing under his sleeve.
He held it out. He still couldn’t fully straighten it. ‘Okay. The specialist says I definitely won’t need a skin graft.’
‘Justin will be disappointed,’ I said grinning.
‘You remembered.’ He reached under the table and stroked my bare knee. As it happened, there was barely any bruising after getting knocked over in the carpark. I hadn’t told Con about it, and as he hadn’t mentioned his call to me in the wine-bar, neither had I.
‘Will you be okay when you start filming?’
‘We’ll be in space suits the whole time,’ he said, ‘so no one will see the scar.’
‘Any more news on the dates?’
‘We start in four weeks. It’s called Machine on Mars – a kind of dystopian sci-fi movie.’ There was a pause, then he added, ‘I’ll be in Arizona.’
I’d known we’d be apart, but only now did it fully hit home.
‘How long?’ I said, reaching out to grip his fingers.
‘The first stint is about two months.’
‘Ouch.’
He looked at me longingly. ‘Why don’t you come with me?’ he whispered, lifting my fingers to his lips and gently biting my nail.
I thought he was joking at first, then he froze, waiting for me to answer. ‘I can’t. Not with work.’ He must have felt me stiffen because he let my hand drop.
‘Can’t you take extended leave? Come out with me for a month. You never take leave.’ His face was hard, his eyes boring into mine.
‘It’s a new job. I can’t just walk away. In any case, I’ve built up relationships with my patients. I wouldn’t want to leave them in the lurch.’
‘So you’re the only one who can possibly help them?’ he tutted. A woman on the next table turned round at the sound of his raised voice.
‘No, I’m not saying that.’ I wanted to say I didn’t want to leave them, especially with so many questions involving the patients from the Tube incident, but I stopped myself. ‘It’s a new job, Con. It’s difficult.’
He dropped his chin and ate the rest of his pâté au fruits de mer in silence.
The wind had dropped, but it was cool when we got outside and Con pulled me close. We ambled through the back streets, laughing at some of the terrible jokes Justin had passed on to Con from school. He seemed to have forgotten our little rift.
Once inside our room, he lifted me off my feet and carried me to the bed. Every moment after that was pure bliss. Dreamy, warm and delicious. In the early hours, he rolled me over and wanted to start again. In my sleepy state, I gave myself to him, wishing all the clocks would stop so we could stay right where we were for ever.
Morning came too soon; I felt like our bodies had only just drifted apart, a sheen of honeyed sweat coating my skin.
Con yawned and sat upright, leant over and deliberately held my hands out across the rumpled sheets. He looked like he was going to say something. It felt like it was going to be something big – definitive and show-stopping. But, if it was, he must have changed his mind. He took a breath and shook his head, smiling.
‘You’re just so gorgeous,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry – I can’t leave you alone.’
We rolled into a hug and I hid my face in his hair.
I don’t know how I would have responded, if he’d popped the big question. Con was amazing, but it was too soon. We barely knew each other. And there was the issue of his possessiveness. We’d have to sort that out. Would there be a good time to address it while we were in Brighton? The idea filled me with dread; I didn’t want to spoil our special time – and I was in no doubt that by dredging it up, our weekend would be ruined.
Nevertheless, I felt uneasy.
Things didn’t go well after t
hat, in any case. Con took a call during breakfast and turned to me grim-faced.
‘I’ve got to go – I’m really sorry.’
I nearly choked on my mackerel. ‘Go? Go where?’
‘It’s the theatre – I need to sort something out. I hate doing this, but…’ He didn’t finish the end of his sentence.
He got to his feet, his hands on his hips.
I dropped my napkin on the table, rising to join him. ‘I’m a bit confused, Con. One minute you’re all over me, the next—’
‘It’s not you, honestly.’ He grabbed me round the waist and squeezed too hard. His face was too close, his grip too tight. I had to push him away. ‘Really, it isn’t,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to believe me.’ His eyes seemed to grow to twice their normal size, imploring me to understand. Understand what? It didn’t feel right.
‘Well – we’d better start packing,’ I said with a sigh.
Monday morning found me sitting in my office staring at a painting on the wall of a girl with a parasol, swaying effortlessly on a swing hanging from a tree. I wanted to be there. I wanted to be her.
Con had rung me on Sunday evening. He apologised for dragging me back from Brighton so soon, but the rest of the call was stilted and difficult, with neither of us really saying anything. Something was out of kilter, in spite of how well things went on Saturday.
Then there was Miranda. She was still at the flat when I got back on Sunday. I knew I was going to have to say something. I didn’t want her to think that the longer she stayed the more I’d get used to it. One week – one month – then in for the duration. Being around her wound me up before she’d even opened her mouth. The place wasn’t my own and I couldn’t relax. I knew I was being unreasonable, but that was the effect she had on me.
Calling her by her new name took some getting used to, for a start. For Miranda it was easy; she seemed able to snap from one persona to another in the same way anyone else might jump on and off buses. But for me it was hard to reframe my memories of an unruly girl called Mimi into this new identity. Somehow, it made her more of a stranger.
I felt guilty for being so uptight with her. I wanted more than anything to trust her – but I couldn’t. Even on medication, she did impulsive, reckless things – often involving wet paint. When I was in Brighton, she’d invited fellow artists over without asking and traces of green glitter were now embedded in the carpet. She’d also seen fit to rearrange all the furniture in the sitting room. ‘Looks bigger this way,’ she said, waiting for some expression of gratitude. Every time I queried or challenged what she’d done, she snapped and slammed doors in my face. It kept me constantly treading on egg-shells.
