by Carrie Elks
I glance over at the baby, reclined in his buggy, and a smile creeps across my lips. He looks so peaceful here, it's as though the fresh air is some kind of panacea. I can't imagine letting him sleep in our rotten backyard at home.
“We’re good. We miss you, though. How are you feeling about tonight?” From the position of the sun in the sky, I'm guessing it's mid-afternoon here, which makes it early morning in Seattle, where the tour is starting.
“Sick with nerves. We've got a sound check in a while so I'm trying not to think about it ‘til then. Listen, I've got to go. We’re heading out for breakfast. Give Maxie a kiss from me, okay?”
My stomach drops. I know he's trying not to abuse Stuart's friendship by using his phone too much, but we've been talking for less than a minute. “Oh, okay. Can you call me after the gig, let me know how you get on?”
“It'll be the middle of the night, babe.”
“I'll be awake, I expect,” I say dryly. “But you could text me otherwise.”
“Yeah, sure. I'll try to call. Put your phone on silent in case you're asleep, I'll leave a message.”
That's all it takes to cheer me up. “Sounds good. I love you.”
“Love you too, sweetheart. Give Max a kiss from me.”
“I will.”
* * *
Max is so worn out from all the fresh air that he only wakes up once. I tiptoe across my childhood bedroom to pick him up, and amazingly he goes back to sleep before I even have time to think about feeding him. Suspecting some kind of ruse, I lay awake for a while, listening to him breathing, waiting for the crescendo of cries I'm convinced are coming.
But he remains silent.
This is where I should fall back to sleep myself, make up for all the hours and minutes I've lost since Max was born. Sadly, I'm wide awake. So I toss and turn in my bed for a while, occasionally checking my phone for messages, trying to swallow down the disappointment when there isn't any flashing light.
At three o'clock I remind myself that even if they're the opening act they could still be on stage. At four I make the excuse that he's probably watching the gig. By the time six arrives, my wakefulness is only enhanced by the tuneful cacophony of the dawn chorus, as the birds wake up to another beautiful morning.
There's still no message.
Okay, so there could be a hundred reasons for his lack of communication. Most likely Stuart's phone has run out of charge. Or maybe they're celebrating a little too much, and he's too busy drinking and smoking to remember his promise.
I shake my head at my foolishness and quickly tap out a text, asking Stuart how it went. They'll call me when they get a chance.
It's still early when I creep downstairs to make a cup of tea. Though the days have been hot, the early mornings still retain an edge of chill, and I pull my cardigan around me to stave off the shivers. In my efforts to pack light, I have no slippers, and the flagstone floor is cold on my bare feet.
When I pull open the kitchen door, light floods through the entrance, casting a pool of yellow on the creamy-grey floor. My dad sits at the table, a cup of half-drunk tea in front of him. The paper is open on the cryptic crossword as he fills the squares in with meticulous script. Eventually he looks at me over the rims of the reading glasses he's had to wear for the last few years.
“Would you like a cup?”
Even when it's only him, he brews the tea in the pot. I wonder if it's simply an old habit, or whether he really prefers it that way. For a moment, I consider buying him a pot for one, but that seems so sad. So final.
“Yes, please.” I pull a chair up and crane my neck to look at the crossword. “How are you getting on?”
“I've only just started. It seems fairly simple this week.”
“Do you do the crossword every Sunday?”
“Every day,” he says. “The crossword and Radio Two in the mornings. The garden in the afternoon.”
I can remember when he was a real career man. Always talking about his projects at work. That seems a lifetime ago, now.
“Have you thought about doing some online?” I ask. “There's loads of good quiz sites, I bet there's hundreds of crosswords.”
He looks at me as if I'm crazy. “Why would I need hundreds? I only need one.”
While he pours my tea I pull my phone out of my pocket. No message.
“Expecting a call?” he asks.
Shrugging, I take a sip. “Alex should be off stage by now. I thought he might phone me.”
Dad clears his throat, and pushes the crossword away. “Is everything okay? With you and Alex?”
“Yes.” Immediately defensive, I try to deflect. “Why wouldn't they be?”
Looking as awkward as I feel, Dad continues regardless. “I don't know, maybe a few things you said. When you called last week to ask if I was free this weekend you sounded very... sad. If your mother was alive she'd be able to ask you, but she's not... so...” He trails off and shrugs, unable to catch my eye. I realise how hard it must be for him to ask me the question. He's never been an emotional man, has always been traditional. Mum did all the caring in our house, he was simply the provider.
If he can put himself out there, why can't I?
“Things aren't great,” I admit. “The doctor says I have postnatal depression, and I didn't want Alex to leave. We've been having lots of arguments.” I take another mouthful of tea to stop my voice from wobbling. I feel so uncomfortable it isn't even funny,
Dad's silent for a while; long enough for me to think he's gone back to his crossword. But when I look up, he's still staring at me. He hasn't shaved yet, and grey stubble has formed into a grizzly half-beard on his jaw. His eyes are pale and watery.
“You know, being a parent isn't easy. It's bound to shake up your relationship. I can remember your mother and I having all sorts of arguments.”
My interest is immediately piqued. Ignoring the incongruity of getting relationship advice from my very-stoic father, I press on. “Really? I don't remember that.”
“We even split up for a few days when your brother was a baby. I ended up sleeping on the floor at a friend's house.”
“Why did you split up?” My eyes are wide and I'm more shocked than I can say. In spite of their traditional roles they always seemed so happy. It's strange having to look back over my family history with a revisionist eye.
“We argued about cake.” He looks down, shamefaced.
I can't help but laugh. “Cake? Seriously?” I angle my head to one side. “Victoria sponge or chocolate?”
“Laugh all you want, it was deadly serious at the time. Graham had been poorly for a little while. Measles or chickenpox, I can't remember. I was doing all this stupid overtime at work to save up a deposit for a house. Back in those days you needed a hefty one to get a mortgage, it wasn't as easy as it is now.”
I think of our poky rented flat, and the cost of buying somewhere in London, but choose not to say anything. Besides, I'm more interested in the cake.
Not to mention the news that my mum and dad split up.
“So I come home for tea, and there's a couple of stale sandwiches and some abomination from Mr Kipling. I turned to your mother and asked her why she hadn't made a nice lemon cake instead, and that was it. Armageddon, Mr Kipling style.”
“Oh...” I say. “I bet she was angry.” A sick child, an absent husband and then unwarranted criticism. It all sounds strangely familiar.
“She was furious. I couldn't understand why. How long does it take to bake a cake anyway? And I've never liked the ones you can buy from the shop.”
“But still, Graham was sick. She must have been exhausted.”
“I realise that now. But back then I took it for granted that she could cope. There weren't all these self-help books or people telling fathers what they should do. I assumed I'd be like my own dad. He didn’t take an interest in any of us. Just came home to eat his dinner before buggering off to the pub.”
“So she chucked you out?”
&n
bsp; “That she did. I managed three days before I came crawling back with my tail between my legs. Even then she made me wash my own shirts for a month.”
I laugh out loud. At this moment I miss her so much. From the look on my dad's face, he does too. No more lemon cakes, no more pithy words. Nobody to tell me I'm doing okay as a mum.
“I wish she could see Max.” I give him a watery smile. “She would have loved him.”
“Yes, she would,” Dad agrees. “One of her greatest regrets was that she only got to see Daniel once. If she was alive now, she'd be dragging me up to London every week.”
“You should come up more often,” I say. “Even if you don't want to stay at ours, you could come up for the day. I'll even bake you a cake.”
He catches my eye. “I've tasted your cakes, remember? Your home economics teacher said she'd never seen anybody cremate a Madeira cake before.”
“You remember that?”
“Remember it? I dined out on it for days. I was so proud of how clever you were at maths. I couldn't give a damn about the cooking, I thought it was funny.”
The lump in my throat grows into the size of a rock. It's strange how you have an image of your parents as you're growing up that's so different to the one they project when you're an adult. As much as we've grown apart since Mum died, I can feel this connection between us. It's peaceful, makes me feel content.
“Maybe I should bake Alex a cake,” I muse.
“You're wanting a divorce then?”
We both start laughing. It feels so good, letting the giggles out as I hear my father's husky chuckles, both of us unable to stop. We stay that way for a few minutes, until I hear Max's cries from my bedroom at the top of the stairs. Though I'm not sure how, it feels as though I've reconnected with my father for the first time.
Later, when we are on the train home, I'm still thinking about his words. About how hard the first year or two are for any new family. That trying to work out how to be a good dad, in a world where everything is aimed at mothers, can be confusing and difficult. I realise that even if he was consumed by his career while we were growing up, it didn't mean he didn't love us. He was still a proud, if distant father.
Maybe Alex is still learning to be a dad, too. He had no role model to speak of—his own father ran off after he was born, and he only ever saw him on Christmas and birthdays. Amy's dad was little more than a flash in the pan, too. So he grew up with a strong mother and no father, and has never known anything different. Maybe he feels as though he isn't needed in our family.
I want to talk to him, to hear his voice, to let him know that he is needed. That I can't do this without him. But when I crawl into bed that night, exhausted from our weekend trip, he still hasn't messaged or called.
15
The first night we met, Alex and I ended up in an all-night café off the Thames Embankment. The interior was filled with an eclectic mix of party-goers stretching out their Friday night celebrations, and workers readying themselves for an early start. Street cleaners mingled with bankers in a way that wouldn’t happen anywhere else.
We sat outside at a rusty metal table, our bitter coffees placed on the chipped surface. Every time we picked them up, it wobbled precariously.
Alex leaned back on his seat, long legs splayed out in front of him. An unlit cigarette dangled from his lips.
“You want one?” he asked, cupping his hand to shade his match from the slight breeze.
“I don’t smoke. It’s a disgusting habit.” I smiled, letting him know I was flirting more than anything. Trying to wind him up.
He stared at me, throwing the burnt-out match into the ashtray. Already, I’d noticed Alex had this intense way of making me feel as if nothing else mattered. That I was the only interesting thing in the room—or in this case, the street.
“You’re one of those, then,” he said.
“One of what?”
“A crusader.” He inhaled deeply, then let the smoke drift out of his lips. Even I had to admit he looked sexy.
His words made me grin. I was anything but; smoking rarely bothered me at all. “I don’t kiss boys who smoke,” I said.
The corner of his lip twitched up. He leaned forward, still staring intently. “That’s good. I don’t want you kissing them.”
“You’re a boy who smokes,” I pointed out.
This time a full-on smirk broke out on his face. “I’m the exception that proves the rule, sweetheart.”
The way he said it made my heart hammer against my chest. There was something about Alex Cartwright that made me feel breathless. I wasn’t used to boys like him, ones who oozed sexuality out of every pore. Until then my boyfriends had been more friend than boy. Low key, almost feminine.
Alex didn’t have a feminine bone in his body.
“What makes you think I want to kiss you, anyway?”
“You’re the one who brought up kissing, not me.” Another cocky response. “Not to mention the fact you keep looking at my mouth and licking your lips. I can tell you want to eat me for breakfast.”
The image his words conjured up made me choke on my coffee. I spluttered the hot liquid out. Alex started to laugh.
“Kissing. I was still talking about kissing.”
He may have been, but I couldn’t get the thought of more out of my mind. Everything he did seemed sexual, from the way he caressed the microphone on stage, to his slow, sensual motions as he smoked his cigarette. It affected me too much.
“Now you’re the one obsessed by kissing,” I pointed out.
Another heated gaze. “Maybe we’re both a bit obsessed.” He stubbed out his cigarette in the glass ashtray, the butt floating in the ashy water collecting there. “I know I am.”
Staring at my lips he leaned closer still. Enough for me to see the tall black edges of his tattoos as they emerged from the neck of his shirt. How many did he have? Was his body covered with them? Maybe his chest was one colourful canvas, spread with eagles and flowers and dirty little words. Closing my eyes, I imagined running my hands over the hard planes of his abdomen, tracing the ink down to where his stomach met his waistband.
“Hey.” His voice was soft, low. “I lost you for a minute.”
Embarrassed, I looked up at him. I was sure he must have been able to read my mind. That he could tell from the expression on my face exactly what I was thinking. Unfortunately, at times like those, I tended to bluster.
“I was thinking how late it is,” I said. “Or how early, I guess.”
The sun hadn’t yet risen enough to be visible over the tall buildings of the City, but the pale orange glow that cast a halo around them told me it wouldn’t be long. Glancing at my watch, I saw it was nearly 6:00 a.m. I’d officially been awake for over twenty-four hours.
I was so going to pay for that later.
“You’re tired?” he asked. “I can take you home.”
My shoulders slumped. “Home?”
No smirk this time. Only that hot, intense, stare. “Your place, my place. Doesn’t matter. The result’s going to be the same.”
“You sound very sure of yourself.”
He stood up, scraping the metal chair legs across the concrete slabs. I did the same, grabbing my jacket and pulling it on. A barrier against the early morning chill.
“I’m not sure of anything.” Alex said it so quietly it was hard to make out the words. For a second, as he stood there in the pale gloom of the early morning, he looked so wistful I wanted to throw my arms around him. But the moment passed and we headed for the tube station, ready to catch the first train of the morning.
I hadn’t really noticed how tall he was until then. On stage, among the instruments and equipment, his stature hadn’t seemed so intimidating. But now, walking down the street alongside me, he towered above, making me feel tiny even in my two-inch heels.
Grabbing my hand, his knuckles skimmed my hip as he wrapped my fingers in his. The double sensation sent a shiver right through me. My skin tingled from him b
eing so close.
“Which line?” he asked.
“District will do. I can get out at Bromley.”
“Not that far from me.”
“Where do you live?” I couldn’t picture him in a bland, executive flat. He was too full of life, too colourful for that.
“Shoreditch. I share a place with some mates.”
That wasn’t too far. But though the development I lived in was nominally in the East End of London, it was full of executives more than anything else. No salt-of-the-earth types there; socially, it was a million miles away from Shoreditch. The old versus the new. Slowly but surely even the last bastions of the East End working class were being pushed out by City money.
“It’s a bit of a journey from Docklands to Shoreditch,” I pointed out. “You’d be better off going to Liverpool Street.”
“I’m not letting you go home alone in the middle of the night.” Alex looked aghast at my suggestion.
“It’s the morning.”
“Still not letting you,” he muttered. Tightening his hand around mine, he pulled me towards the barriers, and we both flashed our Oyster cards against the sensors. I felt that delicious shiver again, warming me from the inside out. And for the umpteenth time that night, I wondered when he was going to kiss me.
If he was going to kiss me.
Dear God, please let him kiss me.
Stepping off the escalator and onto the deserted platform, we leaned against the tiled wall and waited for the first train. I could hear my heart thumping in my chest.
I stared at him. Waiting.
The way he stared back made me feel light-headed.
Slowly, maddeningly, he leaned towards me, never once pulling his eyes away from mine. When his lips were only a few millimetres away from my mouth, I felt his breath, warm and soft on my skin.
“Am I your exception, Lara?”
It took me a moment to recall our earlier conversation.
“Yes.” Closing my eyes, I breathed him in. A hint of smoke, a smattering of coffee, but more than anything there was Alex. “Yes, you’re my exception.”
The next moment he pressed his lips to mine, pulling me into his arms. His hands pushed into the small of my back. Insistent, firm, fingers grazing my behind. I kissed him back as if I was drowning, a dying girl searching for her final breath.
