by Fiona Gibson
Fair enough; I’d never want to pry. But I’d like to think that, at some point, he might feel able to tell me what happened.
I glance at him. ‘You okay?’
‘Yeah, of course.’ He smiles.
‘Like I said, Sarah’s lovely – but we’re very different …’
‘I’m ready for my interrogation,’ he teases.
‘She won’t interrogate you. She does enough of that at work.’ Although not remotely intimidating off-duty, I suspect that my sister can come over as pretty scary when in professional mode; she is in charge of a team who inspects care homes and children’s nurseries. Meanwhile, Vic, her husband, is a car auctioneer, which I’m sure Jack would never have guessed, as they come out to greet us and, after warm hugs and handshakes, my brother-in-law struts around Jack’s battered old Fiat, as if sizing it up for sale.
‘This is your motor, Jack?’ he asks with a smirk.
‘It is, yeah,’ Jack says with a nod.
‘Ha! Surprised you got here in one piece …’ He crouches to poke at a corroded wheel arch.
‘C’mon, Vic,’ Sarah says tersely, ‘leave Jack’s car alone.’
Vic grins at Jack. I’m fond of my brother-in-law; he’s a caring and generous husband of the traditional type. He barely cooks, but gardens enthusiastically, and their cars’ tyres will forever remain at the correct pressure whilst there is breath in his body. Plus, he’s a fantastic father to Scott and Ollie, who are in their mid-twenties and still live locally. Both boys are immensely practical; Scott rewired his parents’ house, and Ollie fitted their new kitchen. Sarah and Vic couldn’t hide their horror when, on a visit to my place, Alfie seemed utterly confused when I asked him to replace the bulb in the table lamp.
‘You’ve got a rust issue there, Jack,’ Vic observes, frowning.
‘Yeah, it is a bit of a wreck,’ Jack concedes.
‘You want to catch that before it goes any further. Got an abrasive wheel?’
‘Erm, I don’t think I have,’ Jack admits, as my sister and I exchange glances.
‘Well, you want to get one, or at least some sandpaper. Rub it down nice and smooth until it’s shiny metal. Get your primer on, then your paint and your topcoat …’
‘Yep, I’ll do that,’ Jack murmurs, and I’m overcome by an urge to hug him for playing along with this blokes’ talk.
‘I take it this old wreck’s just a stop-gap,’ Vic remarks.
‘Erm, well, not really,’ Jack admits, as Sarah tugs on Vic’s arm, coaxing her husband away from the car like a mother pulling her child away from the chocolates in the checkout aisle.
‘Maybe Jack’s perfectly happy with it,’ she retorts as we all head inside. Vic shrugs good-naturedly and fetches us drinks, and soon Scott and Ollie arrive, plus Ollie’s girlfriend Morvern, whom he lives with. I hadn’t expected such a gathering. Sarah had merely said the boys ‘might drop by’. But there are enthusiastic hellos and hugs, and it feels like quite a houseful as numerous dishes are brought from the oven, and we all settle around the huge kitchen table.
Occasionally, during my seemingly endless years as a single person, Sarah would call to ask, ‘Are you … okay?’ All by yourself is what she meant. Of course I was. In fact, I slightly resented the implication that I might be falling apart without a man to look after me. But then, Sarah has always been protective, and since our parents died, eight years ago now, she has edged herself into a sort of motherly mode with me, despite being only four years older.
As I chat to the boys and Morvern – whom I’ve met several times before – I become aware of my sister gently quizzing Jack about his life. ‘A charity shop? That sounds interesting. Oh, animal sanctuaries! That’s fantastic. Does all the funding come from the shops, or d’you have benefactors, or …’ On she goes, wanting to know all the details in the way that, when she inspects a care home, she leaves no stone unturned.
Vic turns to me with a grin. ‘So, Nads, is your Alfie still seeing that posh bird?’
‘Yep, they’re planning to go travelling together this summer,’ I reply, at which Vic looks at Morvern.
‘He ditched us at Christmas for the aristocracy. Our own nephew!’ He laughs. ‘Our roast potatoes aren’t good enough for him anymore.’
‘Have you met them, Jack?’ Sarah asks. ‘Alfie and Molly, I mean?’
‘No, not yet,’ he replies.
‘I, erm, thought we’d wait till the summer break,’ I remark, sensing that an explanation is needed. ‘They’ve been home on visits but it’s always seemed so rushed. Anyway, they’re back in a couple of weeks …’ I don’t add that I’ve felt slightly apprehensive about that first meeting, having never been in this kind of situation before. Easter had felt a little too soon to introduce them, even though Jack and I had been seeing each other regularly – spending at least half the week together – since the Christmas holidays had ended.
Vic turns to Jack and grins. ‘Well, good luck with that, mate. They’re bloody terrifying, that pair …’
‘Vic!’ I splutter. ‘No, they’re not …’
‘They’ll have you strapped to a rack, thumb screws on, dazzling light shone in your eyes: “And what are your intentions with our mother?”’ He sniggers and takes a big swig of wine.
‘Dad,’ Scott exclaims as Jack laughs off the comment. ‘Jesus …’
‘Sounds like I’ll have to start revving myself up for it,’ Jack says with a smile.
‘Yeah,’ Vic asserts. ‘I mean, singly, they’re quite a force, but together …’
‘First the rust, and now this,’ Sarah groans, rolling her eyes.
‘What’s that about rust?’ Morvern asks.
‘Vic was haranguing poor Jack about his car,’ Sarah explains with a shake of her head. She turns to me. ‘Are the kids coming back for the whole summer?’
‘Yes – at least, Molly is. She’s been offered work at her friend’s dad’s garden centre. You know what she’s like. Loves to earn a few quid and doesn’t mind grafting.’
‘So that’s your fun spoiled, Nads,’ Vic remarks with a grin.
‘It’ll be fine,’ I say, aware of my cheeks flushing as I laugh.
‘And what about Alfie?’ Sarah asks.
‘He’ll only be around for a few days, then his girlfriend’s coming down to our place, and they’ll head off. They’re going Inter-railing around Europe …’
‘Oh, I’m glad he’s met someone nice, Nads.’
‘Me too.’ My sister and I exchange a look across the table. She knows how much I worried about Alfie as he went through secondary school. Whilst he had a couple of close friends, he was always quiet and studious, a sensitive type who enjoyed drawing and baking and had no interest in sport. Unfortunately, this made him a target for bullying in his early teens, and the fact that his father is a film director only seemed to attract more unwanted attention (Molly exuded such self-assuredness, no one ever dared to hassle her about it). On one occasion Alfie was hurt pretty badly in a fight after school. The school tried to deal with it, and the problem seemed to abate, but since that time Alfie has always been rather awkward socially. He’d never had a girlfriend until he met Camilla at university, so I suspect a new start, in a different city, has helped to boost his confidence.
‘It’s been good for Nadia, you know,’ Vic observes as he fetches Jack, the only non-drinker at the table, another ginger beer from the fridge. The rest of us are knocking back the wine with some enthusiasm. ‘Getting the kids off her hands, I mean,’ he adds. ‘I don’t mean that in a bad way, do I, Nads? It’s not like you were counting the days till the buggers were off your hands—’
‘No, you’re right,’ I concede. ‘It has been good for me.’
‘We’d started to think ours would never leave home,’ Sarah tells Jack with a smile. ‘Scott was twenty-three when he finally moved out …’
‘And Ollie hung on in there till he was twenty-bloody-five,’ Vic exclaims.
‘That’s nice, Dad,’ Ollie exclaims with
a snort.
‘Too bloody comfortable, that’s why,’ his father adds.
‘Ollie still says he misses your gravy, Sarah,’ Morvern says, grinning, and it strikes me that this scene isn’t so different to that lunch at Jack’s, when I met Lori: an easy gathering, with friendly and generous people who are happy to welcome in someone new. I find myself hoping that I can create a similar atmosphere of relaxed jollity when my own offspring return home.
There’s a clattering of crockery as everyone helps to clear up, and afterwards the TV is put on far too loudly, as per Vic’s wishes, with everyone talking above it, and over each other.
‘Go on,’ Morvern urges Jack, flushed now from the wine, ‘what’s the worst thing you’ve ever had handed in at your shop?’
‘There have been so many,’ he says, pausing, perhaps to choose an example that’s not too disgusting. ‘Um, last week someone brought in an ancient pressure cooker that still had soup in it. All fuzzy with mould …’
‘Ew!’ Morvern shudders.
Jack is further quizzed until, finally, I suggest that we really should be going.
After promises to visit again soon – and Vic’s parting shot of ‘Remember to catch that rust, Jacky-boy, before it catches you!’ – we drive home to Glasgow, chuckling over the rust issue, and how weird it is that some men find it impossible to comprehend that not every other male shares those typical masculine interests (i.e. cars).
‘They’re lovely people, though,’ Jack adds.
‘Yes, they are.’
I think about how Sarah thought I was crazy to split up with Danny; or, rather, she reckoned I should ‘hang on in there’, as she put it, until our kids left home. It served only to crank up my guilt, because wouldn’t a break-up have hurt them at any stage? And what was the alternative: to sit tight, pretending, until our facade of togetherness crumbled in front of our children? A failed relationship is nothing to be proud of, I know, but I’m not so sure it was a failure really, when we have Molly, who excels at her studies despite her hectic social life, and Alfie who, despite his shyness, seems to have found his niche in Aberdeen.
‘So, d’you reckon you’re ready to meet them, then?’ I ask, studying Jack’s expression.
‘Molly and Alfie?’ He glances from the driver’s seat. ‘Yes, of course I am.’ He grins. ‘Although, if it’s easier, you could just pretend I’m a friend …’
‘Yeah,’ I say, smiling. ‘“This is Jack, my new friend, who I’m not remotely attracted to …”’
‘“I’m very fond of your mum,”’ he chips in, ‘“but don’t worry, there’s no physical attraction whatsoever …”’
‘They do know I’m seeing you,’ I remind him.
‘And they were okay about that?’
‘Of course they were,’ I say firmly, ‘although I’m not sure they were listening. Whenever we talk, it’s always, “yeah-yeah”, like they’re desperate to get off the phone …’ I look at him. ‘They’re nice kids, Jack. Alfie can be a little awkward like most boys of his age – but they’re decent, well-mannered people …’
He touches my knee, which sends a ripple of pleasure right through me. ‘I’m sure they are.’
‘You do know Vic was winding you up, don’t you?’
‘’Course I do.’
We fall into silence as we join the motorway, then I ask, tentatively, ‘Are you nervous about meeting my kids?’
There’s a beat’s silence, and he glances at me with a teasing smile. ‘Absolutely crapping myself,’ he says.
Chapter Ten
The following weekend, it’s one of Jack’s rare Saturdays off work. Lori is with her mother, and Glasgow shimmers in the bright May sunshine beneath an unblemished blue sky.
Jack and I have already browsed the shops in the West End, and strolled through Kelvingrove Park. We should stay out, we both know it, but after a quick lunch we end up back at my flat, kissing on the sofa. That was something else I used to assume had shut down permanently: my ability to enjoy kissing as a thing in itself. But God, no. Proper kissing, I’ve realised since meeting Jack, does not come under the same banner as crocheted bikinis and novelty hair accessories; i.e. it’s not just for the young.
We are lying there together, entwined and naked now (at some point during the proceedings our clothes have come off). ‘We probably should go out,’ I murmur dozily, making no move to go anywhere.
‘D’you feel like we’re wasting the afternoon?’ Jack teases.
‘Totally,’ I say with a smile as he pulls me closer. And so we waste yet more time, delighting in our indulgence and the fact that no demands are being made upon us whatsoever. My heart soars as it did on Christmas Eve, on our first date, when Jack and I kissed in the pub, and then outside the subway station before we said goodbye. I replayed that evening over and over, all through the next day when Molly and I went to Sarah’s. As I tucked into turkey and all the trimmings, a single thought looped around my head: I kissed Jack last night! We snogged in the street, like young things, even though we both possess reading glasses and have a combined age of a hundred! That evening, my head was so full of Jack, and our kiss, I didn’t manage to answer a single Trivial Pursuit question correctly.
Now our perfect Saturday has somehow tipped into late afternoon, the light turned golden now. ‘Jack,’ I start, ‘would you like to go away somewhere this summer? Just the two of us, I mean?’
‘I’d love to,’ he says. ‘Any ideas where?’
I rest my head in the crook of his arm. ‘You know that series of Barcelona maps I’ve been asked to do?’
‘Uh-huh?’ While Danny seemed to regard my job as a hobby, Jack expressed a keen interest right from the start. All his questions, and requests to browse through my work; it almost made me squirm, the way he was so complimentary and enthusiastic.
‘Well, I could do them without actually going there,’ I continue. ‘That’s what I usually do. But I thought it’d be more fun to really immerse myself in the city – so why don’t we go together?’
‘On a sort of research trip, you mean?’
‘Exactly. We could get to know all the different neighbourhoods, so each map would have its own distinct feel … Could you get some time off work, d’you think?’
‘I’m sure I could,’ he replies. ‘Helen used to manage the shop, and she’s usually happy to come back and do my holiday cover. I’m not taking Lori away until August, so … when were you thinking?’
‘As soon as possible, really – after Alfie’s headed off on his travels …’
‘But won’t you be busy sketching and making notes? I don’t want to get in the way of your work. I shouldn’t distract you …’
I laugh and kiss him lightly on the lips. ‘You can distract me anytime you like.’
‘And what about Molly?’ he asks. ‘She’s here all summer, isn’t she?’
‘Jack, she’s nineteen. She’s lived independently for nearly a year now so she’s perfectly capable of looking after herself.’
He nods. ‘So she wouldn’t mind us nipping off to Spain together …?’
‘Of course not,’ I say, grinning now. ‘She’ll probably be glad to have the place to herself for a week or so …’ I squeeze Jack’s hand. ‘Neither of my kids particularly care what I get up to these days,’ I add, ‘and even if they did …’ I tail off and kiss him again. ‘Well, I’m a fully grown adult …’
‘Of course you are,’ he says firmly.
I beam at him. ‘Anyway, it’s a research trip, remember?’
‘Oh, yes,’ he says. ‘A vital part of your work—’
‘Actually,’ I cut in, smiling, ‘I just want to go away with you.’
I get up, and fetch our dressing gowns from my bedroom – my boyfriend keeps a dressing gown here! – plus my laptop and diary (I still use a proper paper one; I’ve never managed to switch over to digital). Back on the sofa now, wrapped up in our gowns, we peruse dates and apartments in Barcelona. We shortlist three in El Raval, a district close to
the Ramblas that was once, apparently, a bit on the shady side but is now peppered with cool coffee shops, bars and galleries. Jack texts his friend Helen, who agrees to cover the shop for the dates we’ll be away. We book flights, having our first minor tussle over money – Jack is insistent about transferring his share of the cost to my account immediately – and that’s all done.
‘That was simple,’ I remark, setting my laptop on the coffee table and snuggling back into his arms.
‘Eerily simple,’ he says. ‘I guess it is, when it’s just the two of us.’
‘Yeah,’ I agree, still thrilled by the novelty of it all. ‘God, the debates we used to have, when it was Danny and me and the kids. He didn’t believe in package holidays. Said he’d rather have sawn his hand off than go anywhere with a kids’ club …’
Jack chuckles. ‘Those terrible kids’ clubs with all their toys and games and enthusiastic staff …’
‘“I’m not parking our kids in a facility,” he used to say. A facility!’ We laugh, and then we are kissing again on the sofa, our gowns tossed onto the floor as he holds me closer and— he stops abruptly and pulls away.
‘What is it?’ I ask.
‘I thought I heard something?’ He frowns.
‘Just someone on the stairs,’ I remark, unconcerned until I hear another, more distinct sound: that of a key being poked into a lock. No, not a lock, but my lock. And now my front door is opening …
I shoot a look of alarm at Jack. ‘Is that someone coming—’ he starts.
‘Who is it?’ I call out. Thoughts shoot through my head: I’m being burgled. No, burglars don’t have the Yale key for my door. Is it Danny? Has he held on to his keys all these years, and if so, how can he possibly think it’s okay to let himself in?
