by Sandie Jones
When I didn’t hear from him, I frantically rang his mobile every few minutes as the horror stories played out in my mind. The plane had crashed, Japan had had an earthquake, there was a tsunami. By the time I’d eventually reached him, I’d convinced myself that there wasn’t even a remote possibility that he was still alive.
‘Oh my God,’ I’d cried, when he eventually picked up. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m so sorry darling,’ he’d said in a gruff voice, as if I’d just woken him from a deep slumber. ‘I took a call as soon as I got off the plane and when I got to the hotel I crashed out for a few hours.’
‘I thought something had happened to you,’ I said, still with a slight hysterical lilt to my voice, though my chest had stopped hurting.
‘I didn’t mean to worry you,’ he said patiently. ‘I’m absolutely fine.’
I could hear ice cubes clinking in a glass.
‘Are you all set for the big meeting tomorrow?’ I’d asked. ‘Got everything you need?’
‘Yep, Lottie’s sent it across and I’ve got all your mock-ups here. I’ll chat through the scheme with them and make sure we’re all singing from the same hymn sheet.’
‘Even if we’re not, I’m prepared to compromise,’ I said, laughing nervously. ‘I really want this, Nathan. This deal will put us up there with the big boys.’
‘Where you deserve to be.’
‘Where we deserve to be.’
‘AT Designs is your baby,’ he’d said. ‘It was your and Tom’s vision that started this whole thing.’
‘That may be so, but having you beside me these past few years has made it the success it is today. I just know we can go even further.’
‘It’s a massive ask, Alice. Are you absolutely sure you can take it on?’
I’d known what he was implying, and allowed the enormity of the task to wash over me. I sat with that feeling for a little while, like I had a hundred times before, waiting to see how it would present itself.
‘It’s twenty-eight apartments,’ he’d continued, as if reading my thoughts. ‘Our biggest job by a long way. Do you honestly think you can handle it?’
‘Absolutely,’ I’d said, my commanding voice belying the panic in the pit of my stomach. ‘I’ve never been more ready for anything in my life.’
And I’d meant it then, when I’d had a glass or two of wine inside me. But now, three days on, I don’t feel quite so confident in my abilities or my emotions. Nothing’s changed in that time, at least not in a tangible sense. But today it just feels different, as if the roller coaster I’m forever riding has shot straight past the station platform, where it’s calm and orderly, and stopped at the top of the loop-the-loop, with me, hanging there upside down, waiting to be rescued.
‘Have you got everything you need for your meeting with Temple Homes?’ asks Lottie now, interrupting my thoughts.
‘I think so,’ I say, walking across to my desk. ‘Is it definitely David Phillips that I’m seeing?’
‘Yes, he specifically asked for you. He said he was a big fan of your work.’
My stomach turns over as I gather up a file and lined pad, avoiding Lottie’s gaze.
‘In fact, he referred to you as Al,’ she goes on, as I concentrate on not blushing. Though the harder I try, the redder I go. ‘I had to bring him down a peg or two and tell him that your name was Alice. I can’t stand it when people pretend to know you better than they do.’
I roll my eyes and smile tightly, whilst silently saying, He knows me better than most.
3
When my satnav tells me I’m under a mile away from Temple Homes’ headquarters, I pull over and check my reflection in the rear-view mirror. I wonder if he’s changed – I wonder if I’ve changed. I brush my hair through and feather my fringe with my fingers. I could do with a little more mascara, so deftly paint my eyelashes jet black, taking extra care to lengthen them as much as possible with the wand. A brush of blusher, a dab of red lipstick and I’m as good as I can be without the benefit of plastic surgery or being able to turn the clock back some twenty years. It still doesn’t stop me from trying though, as I pull my skin tight across my cheekbones, wondering where all that time’s gone. I’ve never thought of it before, but I suddenly regret not having something done, so that I don’t look too far off of when David last saw me. Ridiculous, I know, but doesn’t every girl want to look their best when they meet their first love again? Not because you still want him, but there’s a tiny part – okay a big part – that wants him to still want you.
‘Alice, wow, look at you,’ he says as he comes towards me in reception. He looks me up and down appreciatively and I’m pleased that I made a special effort. I kidded myself when I was getting dressed this morning that my ‘look’ was just a subtle extension of what I normally wear, yet it had been the first thing Beth noticed when she saw me, and Lottie had also commented on how the red complemented my skin tone. Maybe it wasn’t so subtle after all.
‘David, goodness, you haven’t changed a bit,’ I say, except he has, and I struggle to hide my shock. I’ve spent all these years imagining him as he was, as if he’d been somehow frozen in time, whilst I grew older. But he’s grown older with me. His dark wedge has been replaced by a bald head, so shiny that the glare of the spotlights above him is reflecting off it, and his perfect physique, the six-pack that all the girls swooned over, has been recast with what looks like an extra six stone.
‘So, how have you been?’ he says as he kisses me on the cheek.
‘Good, really good.’
‘I heard what happened to Tom.’ He leads me into the boardroom. ‘I’m so sorry.’
People often say words to that effect when their back is turned. They’re somehow under the misapprehension that it’s easier that way. It might be, for them. But ask anyone who’s been through it and they’ll tell you that they’d rather people be up front than try to brush it under the carpet, or, even worse, avoid the awkward subject altogether.
‘So, how are you doing?’ he asks solemnly.
‘I’m well, thanks. The business is going great, so it’s all good.’
‘And you married again?’ It’s more of a statement than a question and I’m taken aback, like I always am when people I haven’t seen for years seemingly know more about me than they should. I wonder what else he knows.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘In some respects, I’ve been very lucky.’
‘I’m pleased you were able to make a new life for yourself after what happened.’
I offer a closed smile. ‘And you?’ I ask. It seems rude not to at least pretend to be interested in what’s been happening in his life since I last saw him. ‘You’ve obviously made a great success of Temple Homes.’
He smiles, and his eyes disappear into the folds of skin around them. I can’t even begin to compute that this is the same person, man or boy, who had taken my virginity one summer night, after the end-of-exams ball.
‘The company’s doing really well,’ he says. ‘But my marriage, unfortunately, was a casualty of its success.’
I drop my eyes, uncomfortable with the personal slant the conversation has taken. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘It happens,’ he says. ‘Perhaps you can’t have it all.’
‘But you must be very proud of what you’ve achieved here,’ I say, looking around the boardroom and noting the various building certificates on the wall.
‘Yes,’ he says, puffing out his chest and sitting up straighter in his chair. ‘But I think we can go further, hence bringing you in. I hope you didn’t mind me contacting AT Designs, but I’ve seen your work around and I’m very impressed with what you do.’
‘Not at all,’ I say, smiling. ‘That’s good to hear.’
A phone trills around the room and for a moment I ignore it, as I’m sure I turned mine to silent. But when it continues, and I notice David’s sitting on the table between us, showing no sign of life, I rummage in my bag.
‘Sorry, excuse me,’ I say,
before seeing that it’s Nathan and pressing decline.
‘So, the Bradbury Avenue project is—’ David begins, before the ringing of my phone interrupts us again.
‘I’m so sorry, let me turn it off.’ I hit decline again and turn the volume off, but panic is already beginning to set in and I can’t concentrate on anything David is saying to me. I note everything down as the silent calls continue to light up my mobile, my writing becoming more frantic.
‘Okay, so leave this with me,’ I say, standing up, in an attempt to wrap up the meeting prematurely. ‘And I’ll give you a call once I’ve got some ideas to present to you.’
‘Why don’t we do that over dinner?’ he says, holding on to the hand I’ve offered for a little longer than necessary.
‘It’s probably best to keep this professional,’ I say, half laughing.
Without warning, his hands are on my buttocks, pulling me in to him.
‘No one ever need know,’ he breathes into my ear. The pungent smell of coffee permeates my nostrils and I turn my head. He makes a grab for one of my breasts, squeezing it hard. ‘We were good together, you and me. I bet we still are.’
‘Don’t you ever do that again,’ I hiss, pushing him away from me with two hands on his chest. He looks hurt, as if he can’t understand what he’s done wrong.
‘But I thought—’
‘You thought what? That just because we’ve been together before gives you the right to go for it again.’
‘Well, y-yes,’ he stutters, and it takes all my resolve not to slap his face.
I quickly gather up my things from the table and turn to walk out. ‘This has clearly been a waste of my time.’
‘But the project . . .’ he calls out after me. ‘What about the project?’ I don’t answer, leaving him to fill in the blanks.
I’m shaking when I get to the car and fumble with the handle, slamming the door behind me in indignation. How dare he presume that this would be anything other than a business meeting?
I look down at my blouse, undone by one button too many, and I slam the steering wheel in frustration. ‘Shit!’ I call out loud. What was I thinking? Aren’t I as guilty as he is? What message had I relayed in my pathetic attempt to recapture a time long since passed? But then I pull myself up. No. However I choose to dress does not give him the right to invade my personal space.
In my incandescent rage I’d forgotten that Nathan had been trying to call me and as I look at my phone, I notice I’ve missed twelve calls from him and one from the girls’ school.
‘Shit! Shit!’ I say as my mouth goes dry. My heart feels like it’s beating at double speed.
‘Nathan, it’s me,’ I blurt out when he picks up. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Where are you?’ he asks.
‘I’m just out of a meeting,’ I say, my voice frantic. ‘What is it? Are the girls okay?’
‘It’s Livvy,’ he says.
I feel like I can’t breathe.
‘Wh-what is it?’ I stutter, already working out the quickest way to get to her. I’m turning the key in the ignition but it’s not starting. Panic is building within me as I try it again and again. In a split second of clarity I remember that I need to put my foot on the brake first.
‘What’s happened? Where is she? Is she okay?’ The questions are all coming at once.
‘She’s fine,’ he says. ‘But she’s had a little accident at school.’
‘What kind of accident?’ I ask, leaving rubber on the road as I screech out of the Temple Homes car park and head in the direction of the school.
‘It sounds like she’s hit her head.’
It physically hurts as I inhale. ‘Oh God.’
‘Okay, now listen to me,’ he says, his voice suddenly authoritative. ‘I want you to take some deep breaths and calm down.’
I try to do what he says, but my lungs don’t feel like they’re working. They’re not letting in the air that I need. My breaths are coming in short, sharp pants as I will the learner driver in front of me to put their foot down.
‘Alice, listen to me,’ says Nathan again. ‘I need you to slow everything down and just concentrate on inhaling and exhaling, long and slow.’
If I could close my eyes it would be easier, but cars seem to be coming at me from every angle. Cutting across my path, pulling out in front of me. Horns are blaring but I can’t tell where they’re coming from or who they’re directed at.
‘You okay?’ asks Nathan. I nod through pursed lips. ‘Alice?’
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Do you want me to stay on the line until you get there, or shall I let them know you’re on your way?’
‘Can you call them?’ I ask.
‘Where are you? How long will it take?’
‘I’ve . . . j-just left Temple Homes headquarters.’
I stutter because I genuinely can’t remember where I am, not because I’m trying to hide anything.
‘Where are you?’ I ask.
‘I’ve just left the airport and I was going to go straight to the office if that’s all right with you.’
‘Yes, I’ll see you at home then.’
‘Call me once you’re with Livvy,’ he says. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.’
It only occurs to me then that he doesn’t know about the conversation I had with Miss Watts this morning. I wonder if the problem is bigger than either of us thought.
‘They don’t sound that concerned,’ he goes on. ‘They’re probably just worried about concussion and need to cover their backs.’
I end the call and turn up the radio in an attempt to drown out the noise in my brain.
When I reach the school, I park in the space reserved for the headmaster and half walk, half run into reception, trying hard not to look how I feel.
‘Ah, hello Mrs Davies,’ says Carole, the school secretary, careful to keep her tone upbeat. I’m quite sure they have a file on me with the words ‘Handle with care – unexpectedly widowed’ written in big red marker pen. ‘Nothing to worry about, it’s just that Olivia had a little fall.’
‘Is she okay?’ I ask, following her through the double doors.
The unmistakable stench of boiled cabbage wafts under my nose as my heels click-clack on the polished wooden floor of the dining hall. It’s the same smell as my school dinner thirty years ago, even though we didn’t have boiled cabbage then, and Olivia doesn’t have it now. I know, because she memorizes the menu every week and tells me what she’s having day by day. I almost feel sorry for her that chocolate sponge and chocolate custard, the monthly treat that was part of the staple diet of inner London schools back in the day, is no longer offered. But even on those special days, the school still smelt like rancid vegetables, and I find myself wondering why that is. Anything to keep my mind off what I’m about to be faced with.
‘Your mummy’s here,’ says the school nurse, smiling at me. I half expect to peer around the curtain and be confronted by Olivia lying unconscious on the bed, with blood pouring from her head.
Relief floods through me as she looks up, a little forlornly. There’s no blood, no bandage, not even a bruise. ‘Hello, baby girl,’ I say, my voice shaky, as I bend down to her level. ‘You okay?’
She nods, and I give her knee a squeeze, fighting the urge to wrap her in my arms and breathe her in, if only for the nurse and Carole, who, no doubt, will add ‘neurotic mother’ to my file.
‘It was only a little knock,’ says the nurse. ‘But just keep an eye on it. If she complains of a headache or experiences any dizziness, you ought to get her checked out at hospital.’
I smile and nod.
‘What happened?’ I ask when we’re back in the car.
‘Phoebe pushed me,’ she says tearfully.
I picture Phoebe’s normally angelic little face twisting into something ugly as she bullies my daughter. I can’t bear the thought.
‘She was being mean to me,’ whispers Olivia, as if someone might overhear. ‘So I did what
you told me to do.’
I wait with baited breath, unable to remember what I said. I’m hoping I told her to give as good as she gets.
‘I ignored her and walked away,’ she says.
I can’t help but be disappointed with my own advice.
‘But she pushed me, and I fell onto the floor.’
‘Well, that’s not very nice, is it?’ I’m careful to keep my voice light, all the time wondering how quickly I can get an appointment to see the head. ‘I thought Phoebe was your friend. Is she always mean to you?’
She shakes her head, before immediately nodding. I’m not sure that she knows herself.
‘Only sometimes,’ she admits. ‘She says bad stuff to try and make me cry.’
I gently push her flyaway hair back from her elfin face. ‘What kind of stuff?’ I ask.
She shrugs, as if trying to lift the weight of the world from her shoulders.
‘Come on, you can tell me,’ I press.
‘She says that my first dad is dead.’
I’m momentarily speechless.
‘But . . . but you know that Tom was Sophia’s daddy,’ I say, as she nods. ‘He wasn’t your daddy.’
‘I know, but Phoebe says that he was my first daddy.’
I pull her to me, as much as is physically possible across the console of the car. ‘Listen—’ I start.
‘And . . . and . . . she says that my second daddy is going to die like my first daddy.’ Her eyes fill with tears and a big globule falls over her bottom lashes.
‘Now, you listen to me,’ I say assertively, keen not to pass on my own paranoid tendencies. ‘What happened to Sophia’s daddy was a one-in-a-million. Nothing like that will happen to your daddy.’ I discreetly cross my fingers.
She looks at me, her big blue eyes glazed with tears. ‘I promise,’ I say resolutely. ‘Now, how about an ice cream?’
‘Yay,’ she squeals, oblivious to her worries and sadness transposing from her to me.
4
‘Daddy’s here!’ shrieks Olivia as she bounds down the stairs in her pyjamas, with Ned the Ted in her hand.
‘Er, excuse me madam, aren’t you supposed to be in bed?’ I say, looking up from the mood boards that I’ve laid out over the dining table.
