‘Hardly Mrs Robinson,’ I say with a smile. ‘What happened to her?’
‘We had this intense, nine-month relationship, then I went to university in London, while she stayed in Aberdeen to continue studying.’
‘So you met lots of attractive and clever bright young things and no longer had eyes for her?’
‘No, I pined pitifully, wrote to her three times a day, then returned home to discover that she’d dumped me for her lecturer.’
‘Oh, no!’
‘A tale of woe, I know. And the second one, when I was twenty-two, isn’t much better. Her name was Naomi Gillespie. She was without question the most beautiful woman I’ve ever been out with, if not set eyes on, before or since. We were together for three years before she left me for a Portuguese photographer and moved to Lisbon. They have two children now, and are sickeningly happy.’
‘Shit.’
‘I know. Still, I’m over it now. It’s only taken ten years.’ He grins.
‘It’s her loss. You’re lovely,’ I blurt out, regretting it instantly. ‘Sorry, but I felt obliged to say that.’
He laughs. ‘Well, it means a lot that you think so, so thank you. Although you don’t really know me. I could be a brute.’
‘True.’ I mock-sigh. ‘Are you?’
‘No, you were right first time – I am lovely. My girlfriends just don’t seem to realise it.’
‘So, nobody since then?’
‘I’ve dated lots of people but never had anyone serious. I have this . . . problem.’
‘Do I want to know this?’ I mutter.
He laughs. ‘It’s nothing contagious, don’t worry. I just mean . . . I would absolutely love to meet someone and fall head over heels love. Someone I can’t stop thinking about, someone who could blow my mind like when I was a teenager.
I smile. ‘Have you ever read Captain Corelli’s Mandolin?’ I ask.
‘Oh, that’s a great book,’ he says.
‘There’s a line in it, something like: “love is a temporary madness that erupts like volcanoes then subsides . . . and when it subsides you have to work out whether your roots are so entwined that it is inconceivable that you should ever part.”
‘Now that is a brilliant quote,’ he says. ‘And it perfectly sums up my problem.’
‘Your volcano won’t erupt?’
He bursts out laughing again. ‘I wouldn’t have put it quite like that, but that’s essentially it. And we’re not talking about a physical malfunction here, incidentally. Just to be clear.’
‘Of course not. I’m sure that’s all functioning perfectly.’
‘It is. Can we please end this metaphor now?’ He grins. ‘The point I’m making is this – any fool is supposed to be able to fall in love, it’s staying in love that’s meant to be the hard part. Well, I can’t even manage the bit that any fool can. As much as I want that to happen, it never does. I’m starting to think I’ve become incapable of it.’
‘How old are you again?’
‘Thirty-two.’
‘If you were ninety-two I might not argue with you, but come on. I’m sure you’re totally capable. Perhaps you just want it so badly that it’s affecting your judgment.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, maybe every time you meet someone you’re not just asking yourself, “Do I like this person enough to go out with her on another date?”, so that you then simply relax and see where it goes. Instead, you’re asking yourself, “Do I like this person enough to spend the rest of my life with her?” Nobody’s ever that good. Falling in love instantly is just not possible. You have to let someone grow on you.’
‘I’m not totally unrealistic. I agree that love at first sight is “just not possible”.’ He flashes me a look. ‘But, fair enough, maybe there’s something in the idea that I’m expecting too much, too soon. When did you become good at this stuff? Relationships, I mean?’
‘Ironic, really,’ I reply.
‘Oh? What’s the deal with your daughter’s dad? Are you still together?’
‘Oh, he and I . . .’ I’m about to come out with my usual vague stuff that negates the requirement to reveal the complicated and hideous truth. Only I stop. And hear myself saying something that I’ve never confessed to a stranger before. ‘No, we’re not. Although I was completely in love with him.’
‘So what happened?’
I close my eyes and in that split second of darkness, it comes back to me in a nauseating flash. The day that’s a constant battle not to think about, a battle I usually lose.
I’d never seen Roberto in such a sharp state of excitement and anticipation. In all the time we’d been together, there was no gig we’d attended or football match he’d shouted at that had brought alive his face so much.
‘You’re sure you want to find out if it’s a girl or boy?’ he asked.
‘Yes. No. Maybe. Oh . . . sod it, yes. If I walk out of here without knowing, I’ll be kicking myself for the next four and a half months.’
‘Good. Because I need to know – yesterday.’ He grinned, clutching my hand as we arrived at the hospital for my 20-week antenatal scan.
By the halfway point, my pregnancy had been going like a dream. I’d had minimal morning sickness, with little more than mild heartburn at the end of the day, and, despite Roberto and I trying to put a lid on our excitement until further along, we’d already procured sufficient amounts of baby paraphernalia to open a branch of Mothercare.
There was the traditional sleigh cot, the coordinating wardrobe and the urban 4x4 pram, the one with the suspension of a Lamborghini. That’s before we got on to the bath, the thermometer, the bath thermometer . . . and the endless other bits and bobs I’d never dreamt a tiny human being could require.
Roberto had even splashed out on a car – nothing fancy, just a runabout – on the grounds that, even in London, life with a newborn wouldn’t be practical without one. The only thing we hadn’t done was to decorate the nursery. We’d had the go-ahead from the landlord, but had reserved that job for after the scan.
My pregnancy had cemented my love for Roberto in ways I’d never predicted. I’d worried about whether he’d fancy me with a swollen belly, but he answered those fears by lavishing me with love and attention. Barely a week went by without him turning up with flowers and another gift for our growing baby.
He rubbed my feet when they were sore. He put me to bed when I was tired. He kissed my bump with such tenderness it sometimes made my heart want to burst out of my chest.
In those momentous twenty weeks, we’d gone from a state of elated shock to the most excited future parents possible. We made plans together. We dreamt together. Our future as a little family was all mapped out, and it couldn’t have been brighter.
‘How much did you have to drink before this scan?’ he asked as I waddled in extreme discomfort towards the antenatal department.
‘A litre of water. It helps them get a clear view of the baby. They won’t keep us waiting for too long,’ I said, as they proceeded to keep us waiting for forty-five minutes, during which time my bladder expanded to the size of a blue whale, I came desperately close to peeing myself and had to hobble into the appointment room like a woman who’d taken a gunshot wound to both kneecaps. At which point I was informed that it was only the twelve-week scan for which I needed to drink that much and that, actually, my bladder was way too full to see anything anyway.
After I’d relieved myself and returned, the midwife got down to business. I’ll never forget that ominous silence as the scanner slid across my belly and Roberto and I exchanged looks.
Her face gave away nothing as she scrutinised the image, examining every millimetre of our baby.
Eventually, Roberto couldn’t stop himself from clearing his throat. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘Oh! Sorry, yes . . . everything’s fine,’ said the midwife. ‘I was concentrating on these measurements. Sorry if I went quiet. We have to get it exactly right, that’s all. But, from this
scan it appears you have a beautifully healthy baby.’
I didn’t need to know what we were having after that. I’d forgotten all about that issue. All that mattered was that our child was okay.
‘Do you want to know what the sex is?’ she asked.
Roberto nodded. ‘Yes, please.’
She looked up and smiled. ‘We can never be one hundred per cent sure, but from what I can see, you’re having a baby girl.’
I did a double take at Roberto as a small tear swam down his cheek. I’d never seen him crying before and the sight was as strange as it was beautiful.
As we walked to the car he repeated the same sentence, laughing, about five times. ‘We’re having a girl. We’re having a little girl!’
The theme continued in the car as we drove home. I remember that much. The rest, however, is fuzzy.
They say shock can do that to you: you recall snippets of information about what happened immediately before, but lots of pieces of the jigsaw don’t fit together.
The snippets I have retained are these: Norah Jones on the radio. Sunshine streaming through the clouds. A dog barking on the pavement. Two teenagers kissing at the bus stop. Roberto’s fingers reaching for mine. A motorbike. A lorry. Screams.
Then nothing.
I’ve learned not to dwell incessantly on that day, simply because it slows everything down and makes life near-impossible; something I can’t afford with a job, daughter and endless other responsibilities. It’s still there all the time, of course, hovering in the background and ready to leap out on me every so often. But, most of the time, it’s vaguely under control.
In the early days, though, I couldn’t get it out of my head at all. It was all I thought about – to the detriment of everything else – all day, all night, while I was awake, and in my dreams.
My immediate priority when I woke in hospital was the baby. Because, as my eyes flickered open, I immediately knew something was wrong.
It was dark outside. The bright lights above me made my head throb. My right leg was twisted – fractured in three places as I was informed later – my skin stung, and pain penetrated deep into my bones. I was battered and broken and I panicked.
In a clammy sweat, I tried and failed to sit up as I registered that Dad was next to me – I discovered later that Mum had popped out to get some tea. He looked pale and shaky and older than usual, but seeing me stir sent a wave of relief across his face.
My hands shot to my bump. ‘The baby . . .’
‘It’s okay, sweetheart,’ he told me, through trembling lips. ‘Your baby’s fine. The doctors checked while you were asleep. The baby’s fine. You’re fine.’
I didn’t bloody feel fine, that was for sure.
He swallowed slowly and reached for my hand. ‘Do you remember what happened?’
My head rushed with broken thoughts. ‘I . . . I think so . . . I don’t know. There was a lorry – it swerved to avoid a motorbike. I . . . don’t know.’
‘It overturned,’ he told me.
‘Was the driver hurt?’
Dad nodded. ‘The motorbike rider died.’
I filtered this fact, just about. ‘God. We’re lucky to be alive then.’
He nodded again. I looked around the room. ‘Is Roberto on a different ward? I need to see him. Does he know the baby’s okay? He’ll be worried sick.’
I continued to talk. And talk. You know, sometimes, when you carry on talking even though you can tell from the look on someone’s face that they’re not listening and none of it matters anyway? Suddenly I could tell.
When I stopped speaking I realised I was crying, and so was Dad.
I struggle to describe the feeling I experienced in that moment, except to say that it was as if a great, big fist plunged into my chest and ripped out every tiny part of my heart.
‘He’s gone, isn’t he?’
Dad looked down at his hands and it took all his strength to answer. ‘He is.’ He paused, trying to find the right words. ‘It happened straight away. He didn’t suffer.’
Later, in the months after Roberto’s death, I would grieve quietly, but at that moment something primeval overtook me. My lungs expelled a sound that was terrible in every way: pure, loud pain; pain that was worse than anything physical I’ve experienced before or since.
Just thinking about it now, that raw disbelief and despair, makes my insides burn. I think it always will, whether it’s five years on or fifty years on. Forgetting doesn’t seem to be an option. And I don’t think I want it to be.
Harry realises he’s asked a difficult question – he knows it the second I lower my eyes. Yet, for some rare reason, I want to tell him about Roberto. I don’t want to brush it under the carpet, not this time. ‘He died.’
‘Oh God,’ he whispers. Only he doesn’t do what other people do in this situation, the thing that’s always made me reluctant to reveal this too quickly. He doesn’t fall to pieces and start rabbiting about something else and make his excuses to leave. He doesn’t squirm and bring up the weather and pray that I’ll oblige by agreeing wholeheartedly that it’s way too hot. He simply touches my arm. His hand feels nice there, and I’m glad of its presence. ‘I’m so sorry, Imogen.’
I wonder for a second if he’s going to ask any questions, then it strikes me that I don’t actually need him to. ‘It happened when I was pregnant with Florence. It was a car crash.’
‘I can’t imagine what that was like for you.’
‘I’ve never got used to losing him.’ I glance up, wondering if I should feel self-conscious. ‘I’m sorry. Here’s you making small talk, and I’m filling you in on the great tragedy of my life.’
‘Don’t be silly. I’d rather hoped we were beyond small talk by now.’
A smile flickers to my lips. ‘I suppose we are.’
‘So talk. If you want to.’
And I do.
It doesn’t feel uncomfortable; it feels good, solid and cathartic. I feel proud to tell him about Roberto and absolutely no need to hold back.
‘He sounds like an incredible man,’ he says finally.
‘He was,’ I reply. Then my phone rings. I look at the screen and my heart plummets. ‘Excuse me, Harry. I’d better take this.’
After a day littered with phone calls, I feel numb while talking to Charles. In fact, I feel numb to this entire situation. I step away from the sun bed and go through the motions of updating him, and vice versa.
He has a quote ready for the follow-up pieces in tomorrow’s press. I can’t see how anything can be worse than those in today’s press so authorise them, and end the call with a sigh before returning to Harry.
‘I need to go to the business centre to look over a media statement,’ I tell him.
‘Aren’t you supposed to be off-duty when you’re on holiday?’ he replies, helping me gather my things. ‘Or is yours one of those companies where you have to sign your name in blood on your first day?’
‘It’s not usually the latter, although I’m beginning to wonder this week. I’m totally out of my depth at the moment.’
He starts walking me to the door of the hotel. ‘Everyone feels like that in a new job. I don’t know how you cope on your own, with a young daughter on top of it all. Most people’s stress levels would be sky high. And living in London can’t help.’
‘It’s not London’s fault,’ I say quickly, used to defending the place against my mother’s views. ‘I love the place. I could never live anywhere else.’
‘Hmm,’ he says.
‘You don’t agree?’
‘Actually, I love the place too. I’m just in denial.’
‘Because of your move?’
He nods as he holds the door to the lobby open for me. ‘But it’s the right thing to do, even if my mum’s now feeling so bad about me moving back that she virtually begged me not to when I spoke to her last night.’
‘You sure she actually wants you?’
He laughs. ‘Quite sure. She just doesn’t want to feel lik
e she’s making me do something that isn’t right for me. But it is right, I know it is. She’s had a tough time lately and she needs me whether she’s trying to hide it or not.’
‘What happened, if you don’t mind my asking?’
‘She was made redundant from her job as a care home manager. She’d been there for years and it really hit her hard – she became quite depressed and was struggling for money. She then got a new job but was overcome by anxiety about starting it. She hadn’t started a new job in twenty-five years.’
‘Has it got any better?’
‘So she says.’
‘You think she’s just putting on a front?’
He nods.
‘So you just want to be there for support, really?’
‘I think it’s the least I can do. Still, shame we can’t meet up after this trip, eh?’ he adds, with uncharacteristic hesitancy.
I don’t manage to find an answer as we arrive at the lift and the doors open.
‘Well, hopefully I’ll see you later,’ he says.
And for a short, misguided moment, I want him to kiss me. Like at the end of a date. Because in a small way, that’s what today felt like. Despite the interruptions. Despite the circumstances. Despite everything.
I allow myself to look fleetingly into his eyes as I consider the vague possibility that he might be thinking the same. But he simply smiles and starts backing away. Disappointment rises in my throat.
‘Oh . . . Imogen?’ he says.
‘Yes?’
‘Are you around later?’
‘Yes, I guess so.’
‘Why don’t we meet for a drink?’
I nod, not feeling as nonchalant as I hope I look. ‘That’d be nice.’
‘How’s 8.30 at that little beach bar opposite the sailing club?’
‘Great. See you then.’ I smile, turn to the lift and step in.
The doors are about to close when someone slams on the button and they spring open again.
‘I meant to say . . .’ Harry begins.
‘Yes?’
‘I think you’re lovely too.’
Chapter 35
Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about 8.30 p.m. But these are not normal circumstances, because this is my life and nothing in my life is normal. Even on holiday, when I’m trying to switch off.
The Time of Our Lives Page 19
