Falling in Love Again

by Sophie King

  ‘Get off!’

  ‘Boys, please!’ Claire looked mildly amused. Pleased even.

  ‘The last thing I want is you two arguing over me.’

  ‘Arguing? Arguing over a woman? Now why does that sound familiar?’

  They all looked up. Bloody hell! Ed’s first thought was that September could be Claire’s sister with those auburn locks. His second was what the hell was she doing here.

  ‘Garth said I could find you here.’

  She spoke smoothly, facing a spot just above his head as though someone was forcing her to talk but wasn’t able to make her look in his eyes. ‘He’s been texting you but you didn’t answer. Some kind of problem back at the office that you’ve got to get back to.’

  Her eyes swept over Claire and Giles. ‘So sorry to have spoilt your lunch.’

  ‘Not at all!’ Claire held out her hand to September. ‘It’s lovely to meet you. I’m Claire, by the way, and this is Giles.’ She looked at him challengingly. ‘Our son.’

  ‘Son?’ September repeated the word as though it was burning her mouth. ‘Son? That’s another thing you failed to mention, isn’t it Ed? In fact, if memory doesn’t fail me, I believe you said you were desperate for a family. Looks like you had one after all. I’ll leave you to it.’

  I rang.

  Her number was in his address book.

  Imagine that!

  So simple.

  I told her everything.

  Including my own situation.

  She went very quiet then.

  I put the phone down first.

  I can't say any more. I don’t want to talk about it.

  Session Nine: What Next?

  We’ve been going for eight months now (!) so this session is to see where we should go from here.

  What would you like us to do next?

  38

  LIZZIE

  She hadn’t seen Tom since the last group meeting. ‘Maybe it’s a good thing,’ Alison had suggested when she rang to thank Lizzie for having had them all at her place. ‘Perhaps it will make him think about what he’s lost.’ Her voice became almost girlish. ‘Actually, I’ve started seeing someone now.’

  Really? Alison had been married for years – twenty nine, wasn’t it? How could she move on so fast? She (Lizzie) and Tom had almost reached their fourteenth anniversary and she couldn’t imagine having anyone else. How could she share a bed or a sink or the breakfast table with someone who hadn’t been with her in the labour room? Who hadn’t bought the first house with her? Who hadn’t helped her build up all those family albums over the years?

  Sod Sharon. Sod her. But she wasn’t going to win. Lizzie wouldn’t let her. Just as she wasn’t going to let her parents mess their lives up either. It was ridiculous! What did they think they were doing, acting like a pair of teenagers? Someone had to knock their heads together and there were only two people she knew who were capable of it. Just as well it was still the Easter holidays.

  ‘Sophie?’

  No reply.

  ‘Sophie!’

  It wasn’t a question this time but it didn’t make any difference. Not with Big Brother on. Sometimes she thought that television put up a concrete wall between her mouth and her children’s ears.

  ‘SOPHIE!?’

  ‘Wo?’

  ‘What has a ‘t’ in it, actually. I’ve got a project for you.’

  Her daughter, who had been lovely, absolutely lovely, within the first four and a half minutes of coming home, turned a ‘What is it now?’ face towards her.

  Why, thought Lizzie, did she always feel as though she should apologise to her children?

  ‘I’d like you to do something.’

  Mistake. Any suggestion about them helping her and it was guaranteed to make the head swivel back to the screen. Jack’s hadn’t even left it.

  ‘It’s to do with Facebook.’

  A flicker of interest.

  ‘I want you to show me how to put something on Granny’s Facebook page.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I can’t tell. It’s a sort of secret but I’ll pay you.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Twice your pocket money.’

  ‘The amount you give me, or Dad?’

  She hadn’t known they were doubling up.

  ‘Whichever is more.’

  Now she had her attention. Or was it because it was a commercial break?

  ‘Can I go to Ellie’s sleepover too?’

  Ellie was having a sleepover? Perfect. But don’t look too enthusiastic. It might look suspicious. ‘Maybe. But only if you do something else for me while you’re there.’

  ‘Wo?’

  Lizzie scrambled to her feet. ‘Tell you later. Now show me how Facebook works, can you? You do know Granny’s password, don’t you?’

  The doorbell went much sooner than she’d imagined. Wow! If only they’d had this kind of stuff when she’d been a teenager. Lizzie’s mind went back to when she’d been Sophie’s age and had spent evening after evening sitting on her bed with the latest copy of Jackie, wondering if anyone would ever ask her out.

  Now they could all fall in and out of love just by switching on their laptops.

  ‘Lizzie! Thank heavens you’re in!’

  If she hadn’t been expecting this, she’d hardly have recognised her mother. Even so, the effect was worse than she’d thought. Mascara running down her face (that would teach her to start wearing make up again at her age!) and an anguished look on her face as she clutched her mobile, no doubt in case that man rang.

  ‘George’s dumped me.’

  ‘Come inside.’ Quickly, Lizzie whisked her mother off the doorstep before the neighbours saw, and into the kitchen. ‘What’s happened exactly?’

  ‘Something really weird happened to my Facebook entry. Apparently it says that I am Single and Available. So George’s furious with me – that’s why he dumped me – and so is your father.’

  ‘Well of course he is. You’re not single and available, Mum. You’re married to Dad.’

  ‘No, you don’t understand. Your father’s furious because someone put Single and Available on his Facebook profile too! So Marjorie’s refusing to go to bingo with him any more. Can you believe it? She actually rang me and said that he’d told her we had an ‘open relationship’ so she hadn’t thought she was doing any harm by going out with him – not that anything happened of course – but now she felt humiliated by his Facebook entry.’

  Too little information.

  ‘How do you know nothing happened between them?’

  ‘Darling, of course it didn’t. Your father hasn’t been able to do that sort of thing for years. It’s part of our problem. That’s why I needed George. A woman has her needs and when everyone knows about it . . .’

  Too much information.

  ‘But what about you and Dad?’

  ‘He says he needs some time to think. So here I am . . . pour me a drink, will you love?’

  It was all happening now! Dad not picking up his mobile. Tom not picking up either. And now Max was on the phone. As soon as she heard his voice, Lizzie knew something was up. No one – least of all the editor-in-chief – actually spoke on phones any more unless it was extremely urgent. You even got text-fired nowadays.

  ‘Lizzie?’ Max’s voice purred down the line. ‘I do hope I haven’t rung at a bad time.’

  Shit. This was scary. Max never thought about anyone else apart from himself. And it didn’t help that Jack had some friends round.

  Hastily, she swallowed her biscuit. ‘No, it’s fine.’

  ‘Really? Are you sure you aren’t having a party?’

  Lizzie skirted past a group of boys who were skateboarding in the hall and locked herself in the downstairs loo. ‘I was in a sort of meeting but I’ve managed to slip out for a bit.’

  ‘Good. Now listen. I’m afraid we’ve had to let Kelly go. You know, cuts, that sort of thing. But we want you to do the agony aunt page instead.’

  ‘Me?’


  ‘Absolutely, darling.’

  She could almost hear him flick his hair back over his shoulder; if only hers could look as glossy. ‘You’re going to be Charisma’s new Life Counsellor. You, darling, will be the face of normality. A married woman with two children. A bit of a rarity nowadays, don’t you think? But times are changing. Our readers want a return to traditional family values. They’re fed up with single mums. They want the kind of advice their mothers used to give them.’

  ‘I’m not sure . . .’

  ‘Darling, the last person who said those three little words, got sacked. Of course, I can’t pay you any more but at least you’d keep your job, which frankly was looking doubtful this time last week.’

  It was?

  ‘The figures haven’t been great, darling. Don’t you read your ABC?’ Another throaty, smoky chuckle. ‘When we do have to let you go, Lizzie, I’ll have to write the whole magazine myself. Only joking.’

  Was he? It was then that she got her brainwave. ‘Max, if we’re going to make this work, I’ve got an idea . . .’

  He listened for a good thirty five seconds – unusual for Max – before cutting in. ‘I still can’t pay any extra.’

  ‘You won’t have to! Trust me. She’ll do it for free.’

  Max nodded approvingly. ‘Great. By the way, Lizzie, I like your hair. Less severe if you know what I mean. Extensions, I presume?’ She could virtually hear him putting a hand up to his own head. ‘Got them myself as a matter of fact. But that’s just between you and me. Right?’

  She’d arranged to meet Sophie outside the house the following morning after Ellie’s sleepover. Despite her ‘Hv u fnd anythng’ texts, she hadn’t heard a bleep out of her daughter. Now, here she was, hovering outside Sharon’s little terraced house, terrified in case Tom came out of the front door – and yet wanting him to at the same time.

  How could he come back to this woman’s house every night instead of his own? Didn’t he miss them? He had said as much the other evening but since then he just hadn’t replied to her messages.

  Here she was! Walking down the path looking more like fifteen instead of twelve. Where did they get their confidence from? And why was she wearing make up?

  Her daughter slid into the front seat. ‘Don’t freak out. It will wash off.’

  Lizzie gave her a kiss, noticing with relief that she didn’t move away. ‘I’m not, darling. It suits you.’

  ‘Really? Sharon said you’d go mad.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She said you’d always thought her tattoos were common.’

  ‘Tattoos?’

  ‘Yeah. We had a tattoo party. Didn’t she tell you?’

  TATTOOS?

  Sophie pulled back the sleeve of her t-shirt. ‘I got ‘World Peace’ except they spelt it wrong.’

  World Piss?

  ‘Like I said, it will wash off. But it might take a few weeks.’

  Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out.

  ‘What did Dad say?’

  ‘Wasn’t there.’

  ‘Wo?’

  ‘What has a ‘t’, Mum. I said he wasn’t there. He texted me. Says he’s had to go away for a few days.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I dunno. I’ve told you before, Mum. Stop asking me questions about what Dad’s doing. It’s not fair.’

  She knew that. But how else was she going to find out anything.

  ‘So what did you discover?’

  Sophie opened her bag. ‘Is this what you wanted?’

  Great! Sharon’s pregnancy record card! Quickly she scanned the dates. Date of last period. She knew it! She just knew it!

  ‘Why are you smiling, Mum?’

  Because Tom couldn’t possibly have got Sharon pregnant. They weren’t doing it then. They didn’t get together until the following month. So that meant the father had to be someone else. Now all she had to do was show this to Tom and they could start again. They could move to Scotland or Milton Keynes where no one knew them.

  ‘I got this as well.’

  Sophie drew something shiny and steely out of her bag.

  ‘What on earth is that?’

  ‘A rabbit, Mum. Honestly. Don’t you know anything? You have to feed it every night. That’s what Sharon does. She told me so. Can we have one? You know, instead of a shit zoo?’

  ‘Text him.’

  Her mother peered over her laptop and eyed Lizzie sternly across the table on which they were both working.

  ‘Text?’

  ‘Don’t be deaf, darling. It will give him time to think. If you call him on the mobile, he might just refuse to meet you.’

  Honestly! It had only been a week since her mother had started their ‘LIKE MOTHER, LIKE DAUGHTER AGONY AUNT PAGE – OLD-FASHIONED ANSWERS FOR MODERN TIMES’ column but she was really getting into the swing of it. Maybe Mum was right.

  ‘Wd you like to come to dinner. On the 12th. The kds wd like to c u.’

  Surely he’d remember that the 12th was their anniversary. And that might make him say no or . . .

  BLEEP, BLEEP.

  ‘He’s replied already.’

  Her mother took a slurp of water. ‘Looks like he’s been waiting for you to make the first move. Just like your father. Not that I’m going to give him the satisfaction of course. Go on then. What did he say?’

  ‘He’s coming. But he’s going to book a table somewhere so we can talk.’

  Her mother sniffed. ‘Not such good news. It might mean he doesn’t want a scene when he tells you it’s all over.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum. Before you start dishing out advice, perhaps you’d better look after your own marriage.’

  Her mother simpered in that little girl way she’d been cultivating since George. ‘I am, dear. Don’t worry about that.’

  ‘What are you going to do then?’

  ‘You’ll see, dear. You’ll see.’

  ‘Do you have any idea where Dad is?’

  ‘Course I do. He’s in his usual place.’

  The usual place?

  Her mother’s eyes twinkled. ‘In the shed. I've been leaving him something to eat outside the door, three times a day. It’s like feeding the birds but cheaper. He’ll come out when he’s ready. Even your dad will want a shower before long. Now, if you want my advice about Tom and that pregnancy card you pinched from Sharon, this is what I would do . . .’

  39

  ALISON

  ‘Hi. It’s me.’

  Her sister’s voice boomed through the bluetooth just as Alison joined the dual carriageway. What was it about Caroline and her that always made them ring each other at the most inconvenient time?

  ‘Thought I’d let you know that the menopause people liked our copy.’

  Our?

  ‘Even the bit about meano-pause.’

  Was this Caroline’s way of apologising? She hadn’t been sure about Alison’s little pun at first but had reluctantly included it.

  ‘So I’ve emailed you something else. I need it by tonight. All right?’

  Watch that lorry which was sailing too close! ‘I’ll try but I’m on my way out at the moment.’

  ‘Hugh again? Aren’t you taking it a bit too fast?’

  And why not? Hadn’t her husband done the same?

  ‘Actually, I’m going to see David. Apparently, he’s living in a squat.’

  ‘A squat?’

  She was almost enjoying this!

  ‘Don’t worry, we’re actually meeting up in a café in Camden.’

  Caroline sniffed. ‘Probably one of those bean sprout places. You did say he’d turned vegetarian, didn’t you? Well whatever you do, don’t take him back!’

  There was something, Alison told herself as she parked the car, utterly ridiculous about being nervous just because she was meeting her own husband.

  Then again, it wasn’t her husband. Not really. Not any more. David, the David she had known with his suit and alarm clock that rang out at 6.30 every morning, had gone. And she didn’t know w
ho she was going to find in his place.

  A sudden longing came over her to run back home to her warm Aga and cuddle Sam; make a Victoria sponge for Jules and maybe have a quiet supper with Hugh.

  Too late. She was here.

  ‘Alison!’

  A tall, thin man with a dark beard and a shock of blond – blond? – hair rose up from the table by the door. He was wearing jeans with fashionable holes in them, a t-shirt with ‘I’m Really 25 – the other numbers clock up to experience’ on it and a pair of white trainers. It was David all right. But not the David who had left home in September. It was the man she had met all those years ago, when his hair had been fairer and he had worn jeans instead of a suit. Only the lines on his face showed the passing of the years.

  ‘David,’ she managed. And then stopped as he bent down towards her. He’s going to kiss me, she thought. Oh my God, he’s going to kiss me.

  She felt his mouth, warm and soft on her cheek.

  ‘Come and sit down.’

  And she followed, with a strange unease of not knowing whether she’d been relieved or disappointed about the kiss.

  He leaned back in his chair, kicked off his trainers – she felt them thud under the table – and smiled at the waitress with the ease of someone who was a regular. ‘The usual, Jen, please.’ He smiled at her. ‘Beetroot tea. Want to try it?’

  She stared at him wordlessly, taken aback by this laid-back David who looked for all the world like a mature student. He nodded approvingly, mistaking her silence for agreement. ‘My guest will have the same.’

  Guest? Guest?

  ‘So,’ he said, leaning forward revealing a hole in the t-shirt beneath the baggy green and yellow striped jumper on top. ‘How’ve you been doing?’ His eyes travelled up and down her. ‘You look amazing.’

  She couldn’t say the same for him! Hole in t-shirt? Green and yellow stripes? ‘How’ve-you-beens?’

  ‘How’ve I been doing?’ she repeated. ‘For pity’s sake, David, how do you think I’ve been doing? My husband leaves me after nearly thirty years; goes to South America and Goa with some woman and then pitches up in Camden wearing ripped jeans, leaving me to sort out the children and pay the mortgage and come to terms with . . . with being alone. And you ask me how I’m doing?’