by Carrie Elks
9
When we walk into the pub it feels as though we’re arriving late for a party. The bar is full, almost heaving, and the noise levels are high, people having to almost shout to make themselves heard. There’s an atmosphere of amiable intoxication, that end-of-the week feeling raising everybody’s spirits until they’ve forgotten what a grind their work has been.
We are interlopers. Sober, wet and bedraggled, we push our way to the counter. There’s a crowd three deep, and it takes a few minutes for us to reach the front, even longer for us to finally get served. Eventually I wrap my fingers around a much-fought-for glass of Coke and lift it to my lips, taking deep gulps of the cool, sugary drink.
“God, I needed that.”
We end up leaning against a wall at the far end of the room, squeezed in between a fireplace and a concrete column. There’s just enough space for the two of us.
“You should take off your wet coat.” Niall reaches out to touch the collar. “Give yourself a chance to dry out.”
“I’m cold, though.” I shiver. There must be a hundred people in here, warming up the room with their ambient temperature, but I’m still frozen solid. I wrap my arms around my waist.
“That’s why you need to take your coat off. Give your body a chance to warm up. Look, give it to me.” He reaches out to take it, and I shrug the jacket from my shoulders. Niall hangs it from the corner of the mantelpiece. “That’s better.”
“For you, maybe.” I shiver again. “I swear the cold reaches through to my bones.”
“You want me to warm you up?”
Oh yes. “I’m fine.”
“Shame.” He says it softly, but I hear it all the same.
A loud shout carries across the air. We both turn to work out where it has come from. A man walks through the door wearing only a cut-off pair of jeans, with a white veil attached to his head. Stuck to it are an assortment of condoms, both packaged and open. I hope to God none of them are used.
“Stag party,” I say to Niall. I don’t know why I bother stating the obvious, it’s not as if the half-naked man has popped into the pub with his in-laws.
“So I see.” Niall takes a gulp of his beer. “The poor guy must be colder than you.”
“The only difference is, he’s got a night at the police station to look forward to. I’ve done my time.”
Niall smirks. “What’s with Cameron, anyway? What the hell was he planning to do with an etched paperweight of the Tate Modern?”
“I asked him that but he didn’t have an answer. Not one that made sense.”
He’d mumbled something about it being worth a few quid. It wasn’t quite believable.
“You spend a lot of time with those kids, don’t you? Visiting them at weekends, sitting with them at police stations. I’m pretty sure none of that is in your job description.”
“I don’t have a job description. I do what’s needed.”
“Why?” He tips his head to one side, staring at me. His eyebrows dip, as if he’s thinking hard about something. The tip of his tongue pokes out to moisten his lips. I find myself gawking at them. His bottom lip is fuller than the top by a couple of millimetres. I remember the way it tasted when I used to suck it between my own. Sometimes that seems a heartbeat ago.
“Why what?”
“Why do you work there, get so involved with the kids?”
“I don’t know. I fell into it by accident, really. I wanted to help, to do something good, especially as I was unemployed. Then they offered me a job and we created the after-school club and I felt like...” My voice trails off. How did it feel? I know that place changed something inside me. “As if I’d found my way home.” I laugh. “I know that sounds stupid and clichéd, but that’s how it felt. I know I can help those kids. They’ve been dealt rotten hands, much worse than most of us. I was a good girl from Southend whose parents thought the world shone out of her arse and still I messed up. What chance do they have?”
Niall looks taken aback. “That’s fucking amazing. Really. Those kids are so lucky to have you.”
“I’m lucky to have them.” I’m almost shocked by how true this is. Those kids have given my life meaning, trite as it sounds. They can be infuriating and annoying as hell, but all it takes is one tiny breakthrough. A soft smile from Allegra, a cheeky grin from Cameron. They mean everything. The thought I might have to give it all up, to turn my back on them, makes me want to scream. If Simon insists, I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive him. Or myself.
“Everybody’s lucky,” Niall murmurs.
“What about you?” I ask, tilting my head. “Are you lucky?”
“I’m very lucky. I’ve fucked things up so many times, and yet I’m still here.”
I know how that feels. For a moment I want to reach out and trace the high line of his cheekbone, feel the softness of his skin against my own. I want to comfort him, not because he needs it, but because I do.
“What happened after they sent you away?” I ask. I’ve been wondering this for a while. I know my own story all too well—but he’s still a mystery. His hints about messing things up only make me want to know more.
“From university?”
“Yes.”
He takes a long sip of his drink. “I don’t really remember the first few weeks. I was too messed up. According to my ma I spent most of it in a drunken stupor. Trying to block everything out. To forget about Digby, about the fact I wasn’t going to graduate.” He looks at me through sooty lashes. “To forget about you.”
I’m momentarily lost for words. We were in different countries by that point, but still there was this connection, this despair.
“You told me you ended up in hospital,” I prompt. I’ve been thinking about that a lot. How we lost Digby and then Niall was in trouble too, and I didn’t even know.
“I was on one hell of a bender. My ma and uncle managed to cut off my supplies, so I turned to good old whisky instead. The next thing I knew I was waking up in hospital having had my stomach pumped.” He leans on the wall, tracing patterns on his glass. “That was my wake-up call. I ended up travelling with my uncle back to the States and finishing college there. And afterward I stayed on for a while.”
“And now you’re rich and famous,” I say.
“Not as rich as you.”
“That’s not my money. That’s Simon’s. I didn’t marry him for that.” It’s important to me that Niall understands I didn’t marry for money. I don’t know why I want him to think kindly of me, but I do.
“I know.” He looks chagrined. I wonder if he’s remembering our argument that night after the pub, because I am. “But we’ve both done okay, considering how we could have ended up.”
The strangest urge takes hold of me, stealing my concentration away. All I can think of is pressing my lips to his, feeling their warmth, their softness. Letting them move against mine.
I’m losing it. I have to be. Why on earth would I want to do that?
Even though he can’t possibly know what I’m thinking, I feel my cheeks flame.
“Thank you,” I say.
“For what?”
“For being here.” For talking to me, for letting me remember how it feels to kiss you.
“Of course I’m here. We’re friends, aren’t we?” Is it my imagination or did he just emphasise the friends part? My face grows hotter still as I realise he might think I have a crush on him.
But I don’t. I really don’t.
* * *
The house is silent when I push open the front door. Usually, Simon leaves the hall light on if he goes to bed before I get home, but tonight he hasn’t bothered.
The dark is a judgement. A punishment. It’s as if I don’t deserve the light. I flick it on anyway, dropping my keys on the sideboard, barely pausing to look at myself in the big, carved wooden mirror that hangs above it. But from that single glance I see my cheeks are blazing, my eyes rimmed with red. Walking into the kitchen, I make myself a cup of tea just to avoid going upstairs to bed.
When I take a sip it burns my bottom lip, and I remember how I imagined kissing Niall. I’m mortified. It’s not as if I can shrug the impulse off as friendly. I don’t kiss my friends on the lips. Hell, I don’t even kiss my parents like that on the rare occasion I go to visit them. There’s only one person I kiss on the mouth and I happen to be married to him.
Rinsing my mug in the sink, I lay it carefully on the draining board, turning the handle in so it doesn’t catch anything. Then I leave the kitchen, flicking the lights off, and set the burglar alarm to night mode.
It’s dark in our bedroom. No bedside lamp or en-suite light left glowing. Point well made, Simon.
“Hi,” I whisper softly into the darkness. There’s no response, not even the sound of his regular, heavy breathing. I don’t think he’s asleep, but it’s difficult to tell. In the gloom of the bedroom I can barely see his outline beneath the covers. Silently, I remove my clothes and lay them on the easy chair beside the wardrobe, and grab a pair of cotton pyjamas. I clean my teeth hard enough to scrape the sugary sweetness of the Coke from the enamel, enough for a few spots of blood to appear on the white porcelain of the sink when I spit.
Simon hasn’t moved. I lift up the blanket on my side of the bed, and try to crawl stealthily underneath, unsure if I should be relieved he’s not talking to me, or upset. I don’t think I can sleep under this veil of gloom.
Just as I lie back and let my head sink into the pillow Simon switches on the light. “You’re back, then?”
I turn onto my side. Sitting up in bed, he reaches for his glasses. It takes him a long time to unfold them and perch them on the bridge of his nose.
“I’m so sorry.” It’s the first thing that comes to mind. The only thing.
Simon stares at me. Unemotionally. “Why didn’t you return my calls?”
“I didn’t have my phone on at the station. It was switched off in my bag.”
“And afterward?”
“It was too late.” I swallow hard. “I didn’t mean to ruin your evening.”
“Do you know what the worst part is? I kept telling them, “She’ll be here any minute, this isn’t like her,” and they just kept nodding and smiling indulgently at me. As if I’m some old man being taken for a ride. I could read the disdain in their eyes, and I didn’t like the way they were thinking about you. As though you’re cuckolding me.”
I bite my lip, trying not to blurt out that I was at the pub with Niall. I want to confess, I want to be absolved.
“I’m sorry you had to go through that. I promise I won’t let it happen again. I’ll send a note apologising, maybe some flowers or something?” Sitting up, I curl my legs beneath me, reaching out to touch his cheek.
“We can’t go on like this.” He pauses, then pushes his glasses up. “I can’t go on like this. The worry, the tension. It feels as if I’m constantly wondering where you are, if you’re okay. Since you found that girl in her flat...” His voice trails off. “And now this. To have to call around your friends until I find out you were at the police station with some teenaged lout. It just isn’t right.”
I don’t know what to say. I open my mouth a few times, but nothing comes out. He’s treating me like I’m his daughter.
“You know what I was expecting? To hear that you were lying in a ditch somewhere, or being rushed to hospital in an ambulance.” His face twists before he makes his final confession. “I think I would have preferred that.”
A tear rolls down my right cheek. I reach up and wipe it away angrily, not wanting to be accused of using waterworks to soften him again. “I’m sorry.” I don’t know how many times I can say it.
“I’m not sure it’s enough, not anymore. I bloody hate this, worrying about you, not able to sleep until you get home because I’m scared you could be hurt.”
“I’m fine, Simon. I promise you I can take care of myself.” I try to stroke his arm but he shrugs me off.
“How do you know one of them isn’t going to pull a knife on you one day? That some crazy boyfriend isn’t going to walk into the clinic with a grudge and a handgun? It isn’t the place for you, Beth. It isn’t the place for my wife.”
“But I love the clinic.”
“More than you love me?”
I hesitate for a second too long.
“No, of course not.” It isn’t the same. He’s asking me to compare apples and pears. “But they need me. The kids need me.”
“I need you, Beth. I need you. And I have to know you’re safe when you’re out of my sight.” He takes his glasses off and rubs his eye sockets with balled-up fists. “This has to end.”
“What has to end?”
“The clinic. I don’t want you to work there anymore.”
A flash of anger licks at my belly. “That’s not fair. It’s everything to me.”
Putting his glasses back on, he sits upright, swinging his legs onto the pale wooden floor.
“I thought I was that.” Simon stands up, letting the covers fall back onto the bed. “I’ll sleep in the spare room tonight.”
10
By the time I get up the next morning, Simon’s gone. I walk downstairs in my pyjamas, switch on the coffee machine and check my watch. It’s seven o’clock; too early for the office, but maybe he has a breakfast meeting. I frown, knowing I’m kidding myself. It’s avoidance, plain and simple. He doesn’t want to see me, definitely doesn’t want to talk. This hurts me more than I thought it would.
The coffee machine shudders and steams, and I grab a mug and some cream. If Simon were here he’d make a joke about how I like my coffee just like my man: sweet and rich. What happened to us? Did we get swallowed up by this thing called life, spat out on the heap like all the other marriages that fail? I didn’t marry him for us to become a statistic.
Sitting down on a stool, I grab my iPad, and get to work on clearing up my own mess. First I order an expensive flower arrangement for last night’s hosts, with an appropriately worded card expressing my regret. Then I make a reservation for dinner on Toptable, choosing Simon’s favourite restaurant—a pretty bistro just off Upper Street. Finally I turn to Google, and type in “marriage guidance counsellors”. If I make an effort, then maybe he’ll forgive me.
But he needs to give a little, too. I can’t leave the clinic, they’re my second family. The kids I’ll never have. As much as they drive me crazy, I need that feeling, crave it, even. It’s not as if I’ll ever be able to lavish affection on a child of my own, so I choose to do it on them, instead. They need to feel love and I need to give it. It’s a relationship that works.
Possibly my only one.
I’m on my way to the clinic when Lara calls. I ask her to hold as I walk out of the dark, dank Tube station stairwell and into the crisp morning air. The rain has dried up since last night, leaving a London that positively basks in its absence. Trees are starting to bud, daffodils are starting to bloom and the sun is trying her best to push through. It’s one of those spring days when everything feels a little brighter. People smile a little more, step aside when you are walking toward them. In the gardens across from the clinic, cherry trees wear candy-floss hats, the blossom slowly drifting down in the light breeze.
“Hey.” I lift the phone to my ear. “Everything okay?”
“I was going to ask you the same question. What the heck happened last night? I had all manner of men calling me and asking where you were.” Lara sounds appropriately intrigued.
“Two. You had two men calling you,” I say.
She has this way of making everything sound as if it has more meaning than it has. It may be something to do with her training; perhaps she’s looking for a way to prise out the truth without actually asking me. Or maybe I’m just projecting.
“They were very frantic men. Well, Simon was. I
don’t know that Niall could do frantic if he tried.”
Niall can do frantic, that much I remember. Frantic and hot and desperate. Long fingers digging into hips, lips pressing down until they almost hurt. He may have matured—hopefully we both have—but I don’t believe that fire can be doused completely.
“I’m sorry. Simon calling was totally my fault. I should have let him know where I was.” Niall, on the other hand, was not my fault. He knew exactly where I was. He was sitting outside the station, for goodness sake.
“Do you want to talk about it? I’ve got no clients for the next hour; we could grab a coffee somewhere.”
I have a few calls to make, plus some materials to order before the children arrive, but I think I can fit this in. I love talking with Lara; it’s something we don’t get to do as much anymore. “Yeah, coffee sounds great. I’m just walking up to the clinic now.”
“And I’m walking out.” A moment later, Lara is standing in front of me, her battered brown handbag slung over her shoulder. We both press the buttons to end our call. “Hey.” She reaches out and hugs me tightly.
We head to the cafe around the corner from the clinic. It’s mostly empty, in that lull between the breakfast rush and lunchtime patrons. Grabbing a table, we wait for the waitress to bring us over our coffees. They’ve not long had a proper machine put in. We used to have to put up with tepid instant, barely dissolved granules. Now it’s all lattes and mochaccinos. Even the cafe has been gentrified.
I open a sachet of sugar and stir it into my cappuccino, completely ruining the bean design the waitress created with powdered chocolate. “How’s things?” I ask.
“I was going to ask you the same question.” Lara takes a sip. “And I bet your answer is more interesting.”
It isn’t, not really. It’s boring and tedious and not something I want to talk about. “But I asked first.”
She wrinkles her nose, making her freckles all squeeze into each other. “Not good.”
“Oh no. Why?”
“They’re making redundancies at Alex’s work. He might be out of a job by next month. He reckons he’s on the hit list; his boss really doesn’t like him.” Alex works in the print at Wapping. It’s a pretty well-paid job, and I know they rely on his money.
