‘It is so rough round there. You lucky thing.’ Benjie smiled wistfully. ‘Will you enjoy it on my behalf?’
‘I’ll do my best.’
Karen’s phone rang as she sat in the waiting room, leafing blindly through back numbers of Grazia, while her husband endured a chemo session. She pulled it out of her pocket and froze as she saw the number on the screen. She could hang up. But that would be too cowardly. She had to face it all head on.
‘Hello?’ she said cautiously.
‘Karen, what’s going on? I haven’t heard a word from you since Sunday. Are you OK? How’s Phil?’
‘He’s having treatment as we speak.’
‘Oh.’
Karen heard the hospital clock ticking, watched an overalled Chinese man push a trolley past bearing an old lady on an oxygen machine.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Max said.
‘Yes.’
‘Will we be able to…?’
‘I’m sorry, Max. I have to go now.’
‘But Karen…’
‘Goodbye.’ She turned the phone off.
One day at a time. That was how junkies and drunks did it. That would have to be her strategy. Focus all her energies on making Phil better. Not allow one iota of them to be wasted on what might have been.
One day at a time.
The first time Lucinda had called Anton she’d got voicemail. So she’d hung up and then tried again. And again. On about the fifth attempt, she got through.
‘Hello, Lucinda.’ Not surprisingly, he sounded about as pleased to hear from her as Madonna learning the only lunch available was from Burger King.
‘Anton, I’m terribly sorry to bother you. I wanted to ask your advice.’
‘And why should I want to give it to you? I’ve been reading about your adventures.’
‘You shouldn’t… I mean, it’s up to you. But I know you’re a decent guy and you wouldn’t like to kick anyone in the teeth.’
‘Not a problem you ever seemed to have, Lucinda.’
Lucinda felt her stomach tighten. ‘I know,’ she acknowledged humbly. ‘But I think I’ve learned some lessons now.’
Anton sighed. ‘So what do you want?’
‘I wanted to ask you for a job.’
He laughed. ‘You really do have a cheek, don’t you?’
‘I do. But Anton, you know how passionate I am about property. You know you said I had some brilliant ideas. I could be contributing to your company. Be an asset.’
‘We’re doing very nicely without you, Lucinda. Even in these hard times.’
‘But I could help you do better. Please.’
‘You really do think I’m an idiot, don’t you?’
‘Of course I don’t.’ Lucinda was being sincere now, with every fibre of her being. ‘If I thought that, why would I want to work for you?’
‘I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were Michael Gresham’s daughter. Do you know how many deals I’ve done with him over the years?’
‘Loads, I’m sure,’ Lucinda said humbly.
There was a long pause.
‘The pay will be bad,’ Anton said.
‘I can accept that.’ A smile curled across Lucinda’s face. ‘So long as we review it after six months.’
‘Bloody hell, Lucinda.’ Anton exhaled. ‘All right. Come in on Monday. Eight a.m. One of my contacts has tipped me off about a manor house in Devon that sounds ripe for redevelopment. I’ve already seen it but I’d be interested in your opinion.’
42
A fortnight had passed. Nick was in his room at the Comfort Inn, Cleveland, Ohio. A club sandwich sat cooling on a plate in front of him, as he flicked from television channel to television channel, all of which seemed to be showing adverts for lawyers’ firms wanting to help you sue negligent sidewalk repairers.
The Vertical Blinds were halfway through their US tour. They’d already played Philadelphia, Boston, New York and Pontiac, Michigan. Parts had been really glamorous – flying across the Atlantic again (though it was only business class this time), driving across the Brooklyn Bridge in a real yellow taxi watching the Manhattan lights shimmer on the horizon.
‘Wow,’ yelled Ian. ‘We are in Noo Yoik. We’re gonna see steam coming out of the pavements. The Statue of Liberty. The Big Apple.’
‘A stabbing?’ Paul was ever hopeful.
‘You could stay in Burnley if a stabbing’s what you want. How about the Empire State Building?’
‘I wanna go into a sandwich bar and order pastrami on rye. I’ve always wondered what that is. And a soda.’
But Nick didn’t feel any desire to see New York. He just kept thinking about Kylie. Kylie in hospital, on a drip, white as a sheet. He’d done this to her by being a coward, by not having the guts to tell her it was over. By letting her find out about him and Lucinda through a call from a newspaper reporter. He’d behaved disgustingly, but he couldn’t even say he’d been punished, because however much his heart ached he hadn’t nearly died.
The tour had kicked off. They had a bus, like you did in the movies, which was fun initially, but the novelty of days on end trapped on a coach – even a glorified coach with giant tellies and snacks – soon wore off. The east coast of America wasn’t nearly as pretty as Nick had imagined, but seemed to be endless dreary highways lined by strip malls full of beauty salons and dry cleaners and Taco Bells. The towns they visited all looked the same: Camden, New Jersey. Upper Darby, Pennsylvania. Detroit. The gigs weren’t full and the reviews online were lukewarm, but nobody except Nick seemed bothered. They were too busy enjoying the groupies. Of course Nick slept with a couple – skinny blondes who screamed like police sirens as he thrust into them and scratched his back with their long nails, but halfway through he’d remember Kylie’s pink face and blonde curls and his hard-on would shrivel.
Nick pushed the sandwich away, nauseated by the memory.
He kept picking up his phone, jabbing in texts. But he didn’t send them. How could he? He’d ruined Kylie’s life, he absolutely couldn’t barge in again now. He had to respect her space, had to leave her to lead the life she’d wanted in the first place.
Gemma, also, was flicking unseeingly through the TV channels. Tomorrow, two weeks would have passed. The embryos would either have caught or not. She bought a state-of-the-art pregnancy test that also performed ballet moves, cleaned your grouting and did your tax return. But was midnight too early to do it? What about five a.m.? What about nine? Lunchtime? When was the magic hour when the embryos that had been inserted in her body suddenly, magically clamped to her womb wall?
Or – alternatively – let go in a sticky, bloody mess.
‘You’ll do it at seven a.m.,’ Alex had decided. ‘When the alarm goes off.’
‘And what if it’s a no?’ Gemma knew without a doubt that it would be. And then her life would be over. There would be no hope.
‘If it’s a no, we’ll get straight on the internet and start investigating adoption agencies. We will have a meeting with them sorted out by the end of the day.’
‘But you said no adopting…’
‘I changed my mind. We will get through this. Now go to sleep.’
Gemma wished they could make love, but it was out of the question. Far too risky. Though of course there were other things they could do to pass the time.
‘Do you fancy a blow job?’ she asked.
The gap between the digital clock clicking from 6:59 to 7 a.m. seemed to last an eternity.
‘Go on, then,’ said an equally sleepless Alex beside her. ‘Shall I come and watch?’
‘Don’t be disgusting.’
Even now, they both managed a giggle.
She padded out of the bedroom into the funny bathroom that every potential buyer objected to. Unwrapped the plastic wrapper, opened the box. More foil to fumble with. In the bin. She hitched up her cotton nightie, sat on the toilet seat, stuck the stick underneath her and allowed her bladder muscles to loosen. The room filled with the warm, ammoniac smell
of the first pee of the day.
She pulled out the stick. She studied the oval window. It’s OK, she told herself. Because we will adopt. Maybe an Indian baby. Or Guatemalan. But the top space was filling up. A vertical line was developing. First faint violet, then growing darker and darker. A red line in the porthole below.
Oh, good Lord.
‘Let me in,’ bellowed her husband from outside the door. ‘Put me out of my misery.’
‘Come in.’
He pushed open the door. She stood there.
‘Oh shit, I’m sorry,’ he said, seeing her pale face.
Gemma looked up at him.
‘No, darling. Don’t be sorry. It’s positive. We are going to have a baby.’
Grace was squatting in front of the courgettes. It was true what they said on the new gardening forums she’d joined, they grew like bloody billy-oh. What would she do with them all? She was eating courgette bread for lunch, pasta with garlic and courgettes for dinner, but she couldn’t even begin to make a dent into this surfeit.
‘Hello, Miss Porter-Healey,’ a voice said behind her.
She twisted round, losing her balance and falling on to her bottom. Looking up she saw Anton Beleek.
‘Oh, hello,’ she said, wiping the sweat from her brow.
‘Sorry! Did I take you by surprise? I rang the doorbell but nobody came and…’
‘It’s fine. I was just… Do you like courgettes?’
‘We tend to call them zucchini where I come from. But yes, I do quite like them. They can be bland, but if you cook them in olive oil with lemon and basil, they’re really very good.’
‘I should try that.’ She stood up, wiping her hands on her jeans. ‘Now, how can I help you, Mr Beleek?’
‘You know why I’m here.’
‘I do. And I can’t say I’m happy about it.’
‘I’ve spoken to your brother. He’s very keen for the sale to go through.’
‘I’m sure he is,’ she said archly.
‘You have huge debts to pay, Miss Porter-Healey.’
‘Please, call me Grace. Mr Beleek, I’m quite aware of the dire situation.’
‘Please, call me Anton.’ He was smiling.
‘I’m quite aware of the dire situation and I’m quite aware we will have to sell to you in the end. If no other buyer comes forward. But that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy messing you around.’ Like Richie messed me around. She smiled at him. She was suddenly surprisingly aware of her skin glowing in the afternoon sun. She’d never had the biscuit feast after Shackleton died, instead she’d marked his burial by going online and ordering a special variety of rose to plant on his grave.
Anton Beleek looked around. ‘You’ve been working hard at this since I last saw you. Would you like to show me what you’ve done? Remember, I love gardens.’
‘I do remember,’ said Grace with a smile. She’d been otherwise distracted that day, but he need never know that.
Karen sat in front of Christine’s desk. Christine looked at her from behind the shades she was wearing to conceal yet another eye operation.
‘So you’re not resigning now.’
‘No. The whole Devon thing is off.’
‘Well, thank God for that. And how is Phil?’
‘Stable. Another round of chemo in a week.’
‘Christ. All that poison being dripped into your body. Perhaps he should try this shaman I heard about.’ Christine seemed oblivious to the irony that her body was awash with Restylane and Botox. ‘Shall I try to track him down for you?’
‘Thanks, Christine,’ Karen said, as she always did to such suggestions. People didn’t mean to be annoying. She stood up.
‘See you later.’
‘Karen. There’s one more thing. I’m leaving. Just handed in my notice. Jamal and I are off to India, he wants to write a novel and I… well, I want to put my money where my mouth’s been all these years and be a good supportive wife.’
Karen gaped.
‘So… obviously we were about to start to look for candidates. But now it seems you might be the obvious successor. Would you like to be editor?’
‘Me?’ After nine years as lady in waiting. ‘I’d love to.’
‘Good. Well, that was easy. I’ll tell the powers that be that you’re my anointed successor. You will be able to cope with the case load, what with Phil and everything…?’
‘I’ve found the more I have to do the better I cope.’
‘Good stuff.’ Christine smiled. ‘Congratulations, Karen, you deserve it.’
‘I hope you’re happy in India.’
‘Me too.’ Christine’s phone started ringing. ‘Oh, that’s Jamsie now. I’d better see what he wants. Off you go. Talk later.’
Head reeling, Karen shut Christine’s door. She’d never seen that coming. Christine’s job. And she could take it now, now Phil had agreed they’d stay in St Albans, just in a different house.
Dazed, she walked down the corridor then turned the corner into the newsroom and slap – into Max. Her cheeks, warm from the conversation with Christine, were suddenly frozen and her hands shook.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I work here.’
‘But on the Daily. This is the Sunday.’ What a banal thing to say to the man she loved most in the world, more than anything except her girls, whom she’d dreamed about, yearned for, cried quietly over every night. Suddenly standing two feet from her, his brown eyes locked into hers.
The temptation to shout, ‘I’ve changed my mind, I’ll be with you,’ was overwhelming. But how could she with her colleagues all around her, tapping away at their keyboards? More to the point, how could she when her husband was recovering from chemo at home, her children petrified?
‘I’ve just got to have a word with Nicky,’ he said, nodding at the news editor, sitting a few yards away. ‘We need to work out which stories we’re covering in the next few months. So we don’t clash too much.’
‘Oh. Right.’ Shakily, she added, ‘See you then.’ She started to walk on. One leg in front of the other. Wasn’t that how you did it?
‘Karen!’
She turned. She must not show emotion. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m moving.’
‘Sorry?’
‘To South Africa. There’s a correspondent’s job up for grabs. Guns, wars, adventure. That’s going to be me.’ He couldn’t have sounded more unhappy.
‘South Africa. How wonderful!’ Nor could she.
Sophie approached them, waddling slowly.
‘Hey! What did Christine say? Hello, Max, how are you?’
‘I’ll tell you in a second,’ said Karen, just as Max said, ‘Hello, Sophie, I’m fine. You?’
‘All right. Six weeks to go now.’ Sophie’s eyes grew bigger as she looked at his ashen face, then hers. She’d guessed.
‘Can’t wait to hear all about it,’ she said to Karen, her voice laden with knowingness. She moved off, leaving them still frozen.
‘How’s Phil?’ Max asked.
‘Recovering. For now. It’s going to be a long road. Though the doctors think he’s got a good chance.’
‘I hope so.’
‘Me too.’ They looked at each other. She had no idea how she could bear this. But Phil was enduring his pain, so she’d just have to put up with hers.
‘Karen!’ yelled a voice behind her. She wheeled round.
‘Yes, Christine?’
‘I need to see your cookery pages before I go for lunch. Chop, chop.’
‘OK,’ Karen said.
‘See you,’ said Max. One last look and he continued down the corridor. He didn’t look back. Karen stared after him. It was as if an iceberg was in her chest.
She made it back to her desk by autopilot. Sitting down, she grabbed the mug of tea she’d made just before Christine had summoned her in. Although it was cold, its robust tannic taste seemed to thaw her icy veins somewhat, bringing her back to some kind of normality. A desperately sad normality, but still, a st
ep further from where she’d been just a week ago. She would survive. She would get through this. She picked up the photo of Bea and Eloise, arms wrapped round each other, grinning cheesily into the camera, and – glancing around to check no one was looking – kissed both their faces. She’d slope off early tonight. Because she needed to see them both, more than she needed anything in the world.
43
Seven months had passed. Summer had merged into a surprisingly temperate autumn and early winter. Even now, with Christmas just weeks away and the shops full of holly and tinsel, the weather was still dry and mild.
For Gemma the time had passed agonizingly slowly. There’d been the sheer hell of the first twelve weeks, when she’d hardly dared move from the sofa, when she’d panicked because she wasn’t feeling sick enough, because her breasts weren’t as sore as she’d been warned. She worried because she didn’t have piles or indigestion, she longed for stretchmarks that refused to arrive. There was no way this baby could stick around; miscarriages were incredibly common. She’d done a pregnancy test every day, sometimes two. Alex hadn’t mocked at her, or complained. He understood.
When the day for the scan came, they were at the hospital far too early. Then the sonographer was running late. Gemma’s bladder ached from the cups of water she’d consumed to make the image good. When the time came she was so desperate to pee, she’d almost forgotten what they were really there for. She lay on a couch. Cold gel was squeezed on her tummy. The sonographer, who was skinny and jolly, pressed what looked like a Hoover nozzle against it. Almost instantly two tiny semi-humans appeared on the screen. Alex and Gemma held hands and gasped. The sonographer smiled wryly.
‘It’s twins.’
In shock from the news, they saw a consultant. Everything seemed healthy, though of course the babies might have to come out slightly early. Gemma’s tummy started growing at a rate of knots. They began breaking the news to people. A few tactful ones said, ‘How lovely,’ but more said, ‘Double trouble’ and ‘Rather you than me’ and ‘Jesus H. Christ.’
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