A Question of Love (12 page)
Luke reached for my hand again, but this time I didn’t withdraw it.
‘You’re lovely, Laura. It’s about him. He’d obviously got terrible emotional and mental problems which had nothing to do with you.’
I could feel my face tingling at the light pressure of Luke’s fingers on my skin. ‘Maybe…Yes…I guess. I don’t…know.’
‘So doesn’t he ever make contact?’
‘Not with me. Every few months he sends the Missing Persons’ Helpline an e-mail, saying only that he’s okay but not where he is. The last one came just before Christmas.’
‘And can’t they be traced?’
I shook my head. ‘He uses a different e-mail account each time so it’s impossible. He’s just “disappeared” himself—but the awful thing is, that’s his right. It’s not a crime for a man to go missing, and that’s what thousands of men do every year. They just walk out of their lives, and there’s nothing their families can do except wait, and wonder, and hope. I can’t
make
Nick come back, even if I knew where to find him. I just want this chapter of my life to end.’
‘And he wasn’t mentally ill?’
I shook my head. ‘And there were no irregularities at his work. There was speculation that he might have done something dishonest, but the charity’s trustees said that the accounts were all fine. I know some people believed Nick had a mistress somewhere, or even another wife; but I found nothing in his e-mails or diary or on his mobile to suggest any kind of double life. Some people thought
I’d
had an affair and that it had sent him over the edge, or that he was gay, and couldn’t cope; or that he wanted to have a sex change, or had joined a cult, or had found out that he was terminally ill—or was living on the moon with Elvis for all we knew…’
‘I suppose people tend to think there must be a reason for it,’ Luke said.
I shifted on my chair. ‘Yes, that
is
what they think.’
‘They can’t believe that these things just…
happen
.’
‘That’s…right. But being at the centre of so much gossip was vile. And I couldn’t hide it because there were a few small pieces in the press—“Charity Director Disappears”, that kind of thing—so everyone got to know.’
‘What about your friends? Were they supportive?’
‘Only at the beginning—which is probably why I became even closer to Felicity and Hope. They might drive me mad in their different ways, but at least I could
rely
on them. I did have one close girlfriend, but she moved to the States with her husband not long afterwards. All my other friends were ones Nick and I’d had jointly. And they were kind at first of course, but as time went by they started avoiding me—but then what
do
you say? At least in widowhood there’s dignity, but with this there’s only pity, and curiosity…and talk. And now I’m on national TV I’m terrified that one of the tabloids will pick it all up—so you must never
ever
mention it to anyone. Do you promise me?’
‘I do. I solemnly swear. But do you have any idea why he might have done it?’
I fiddled with the stem of my wine glass. ‘No…No, I don’t, I…don’t…know. He’d recently been to the Sudan again, and had come back depressed. He was also badly affected by his father’s death. He’d worked for the UN and Nick had idolized him; he’d died of a heart attack six weeks before—he was only sixty-three—and after that Nick became rather withdrawn. And then, well, there was
one
thing…’ I sighed. ‘We’d had a car crash. Two weeks before Christmas we’d spun off the road on our way back from a party in Sussex.’
‘Were you okay?’
I paused, remembering again the strobing blue lights of the police cars, and the whoop and wail of the ambulance. The kindness of the nurses.
Don’t worry,
they’d said to me.
It’ll be fine.
But it wasn’t.
‘Nick took a bad knock to the head. He had concussion, and after that he didn’t seem quite…himself.’
‘Is that what you meant when you said you’d had difficulties?’
‘Ye-es. And I thought, maybe…he’d suffered slight neurological damage, or had some kind of amnesia…’ My voice trailed away.
‘And how do you feel about him now?’
I heaved a profound sigh. It seemed to come up from the very depths.
‘I just feel…so…incredibly…
angry.
Because
he
knows where he is—and
I
don’t. It’s like this mortal game of hide and seek. And there are many, many times when I
hate
him for putting me through such hell.’
‘But he must have been in turmoil, poor guy.’
‘Yes,’ I sighed. ‘Of course. And on one level I feel sorry for him—but the point is he left turmoil
behind
. Quite apart from the stress of it, I suddenly had to pay the mortgage on my own—£900 a month—when I wasn’t earning a huge amount. There are no insurance payouts if your husband disappears. You’re left completely high and dry. I found part-time work, compiling quiz questions, and my parents and Hope lent me some cash.’ I remembered again how kind Tom had been. He’d given me a ‘bonus’ of £2000, despite the fact that he was in the middle of an expensive divorce.
‘Why didn’t you just sell the flat?’ I heard Luke ask. ‘Move somewhere smaller?’
‘Because if the property’s in joint names, you can’t.’
‘And does he ever take money out of his bank account?’
‘No. But we discovered afterwards that he’d drawn £5,000 out of his own savings, ten days before, so he’d clearly been poised for flight. He
knew
he was going. That makes it even worse. Anyway,’ I sighed. ‘Now you know.’
‘But you’re getting on with your life.’
‘I am. I’ve waited three years and I’m not going to wait any more. Nick’s made it clear that he doesn’t want to see me again.’
Luke put out his hand. ‘But I
do.
‘ I looked at him. ‘I
do
want to see you again, Laura. So…can I?’ he asked gently. He glanced at his watch. ‘You’ve got five seconds to answer by the way.’ I looked into his eyes. ‘The clock’s ticking…’ His pupils were so black, I could see myself in them.
Drriinggg!
‘Time’s up! And the answer
is
…?’
‘Well…’
‘I’m sorry, I’ll have to hurry you.’
I half-smiled then I said, ‘Yes.’
‘Really
?’ I nodded. He lifted his hand to his chest with relief. ‘Well, that’s…great. So…what day? Let’s see…I’m busy tomorrow as that’s my day with Jessica, but how about Sunday afternoon? That would be lovely for me—I find Sundays very difficult as Jessica goes back to her mum. We could have a nice lunch somewhere. Would you like that?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t this Sunday. I’ve got Olivia’s christening.’
‘Okay then—Monday. In fact Monday would be perfect.’
‘And why’s that?’
‘It’s Valentine’s Day.’
On Saturday morning I stayed in bed late, wallowing in the delicious aftermath of my date with Luke. I felt a new contentment—a real sense that my life, which for so long had been crawling along on all fours, was now speeding forward again on all fronts. At nine thirty the phone rang. Maybe it was Luke, phoning to wish me a good morning. I let it ring four times then reached out my hand.
‘Laura?’
‘
Tom
! Hi there!’
‘Hi. You sound cheerful.’
‘Hmm,’ I said. ‘I
feel
cheerful. And how are you doing?’
‘I’m fine—and I’m sorry to ring you on a Saturday—’
‘You can ring me any time, Tom, you know that.’
‘I do. But I just wanted to ask you a
very
serious question…’
‘Yes…’ I said, smiling. ‘And what might that be?’
‘Have you seen today’s
Daily Post
?’
‘No.’
I pushed myself up. ‘Why?’
‘There’s a fabulous review of the show. Nerys phoned me and I ran out to get it. We’ve had some good write-ups, but they’ve all been small. This one’s
big
—and it’s
great
.’
I clutched the duvet to my naked shoulders. ‘What does it say?’
‘It’s by Mark McVeigh…that critic who’s always—what is it?’ I could hear the rustle of the newspaper—‘“Witty and Waspish.”‘
‘Pithy and poisonous more like—he’s commonly known as Mark McVile.’
‘Well he’s been nothing but Mark McLovely about you. His review’s headed “Quick-Witted”.’
‘Good God!’
‘He likes the show’s fast pace,’ Tom read. ‘He also likes, “the combination of the low-brow set with the high-brow questions”, and, above all, he likes your “assured and authoritative” presenting style…Here we are. “The fact that Ms Quick shows neither Robinsonian astonishment when the contestants answer correctly, nor Paxmanesque derision when they get it wrong, makes this clever young woman a refreshing change. She is the natural heir to British TV’s greatest quizmeister—Bamber Gascoigne. As with him, you feel in very safe hands. And, as with him, you suspect Ms Quick could answer most of the questions herself—
without
needing to phone a friend.”‘ I felt giddy with delight.
‘I told you that the critics would love you,’ Tom went on. Suddenly I heard his mobile trill out. ‘Oh, hang on a moment, Laura…Hello?’ I heard him say. ‘Oh
hi
!
…’
I wondered who he was speaking to. ‘I’m just on the other line…Yes, I’d
love
to…okay then…I could come over to you…’ It’s funny—we know each other well, yet we never discuss our private lives. ‘Why don’t we meet in Ravenscourt Park? Ten thirty? By the playground?
Great
.’ I found myself wondering who it was. ‘Sorry, Laura. What was I saying? Oh, I know—I just wanted to warn you that a bit of media interest in you is starting.’
I felt my insides coil. ‘Already?’
‘It’s because the viewing figures were so good—plus there’s a real buzz about the show. The market research said the viewers like seeing the presenter put on the spot.’
‘Well, that’s our USP. But I
won’t
do newspaper interviews because I know they’ll ask me about Nick and I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘That’s fine. But the Channel Four press office do want you to do
some
publicity.’
‘Fair enough—it’s just a question of what.’
‘The
Daily Mail
and the
Sunday Post
have both asked you to contribute short pieces to their lifestyle pages—Nerys has e-mailed you the details. Have a great weekend.’
I padded over to the computer, clicked on my inbox and read the two requests. They were both for those celebrity filler columns you see dotted all over the press. Usually I find these pieces either fatuous—
My Cottage
,
My Second Bedroom—
or horribly confessional
: My Biggest Mistake, My Prolapse, The Worst Day of My Life
. The one from the
Sunday Post
was called
My Pet Hates,
and I had to list three. 1) Nerys, I thought meanly, 2) my nosy neighbours, and 3) the way Felicity bores on about the baby. I could hardly use those, so as I showered and dressed I gave it some
serious
thought. My three pet hates…People who queue-barge; the dark—I really hate the dark—and—oh
yes—
those prisoners on probation who sell dusters and dishcloths door to door. I can’t stand them, not because I’m unsympathetic, but because they always turn up
at night
. As a woman living alone I find it alarming to encounter a strange man on my doorstep after dark, saying he’s on day-release from Wormwood Scrubs and would I be interested in some rubber gloves? They seem to work this area a lot, as a result of which I have two hundred tea towels and thirty tubs of
Astonish.
The request from the
Daily Mail
was to do
The Last Five Things On My Credit Card
—innocuous enough—and, as it happened, there were things I needed to buy. I hadn’t got Olivia’s christening present, and I wanted something special to wear—Felicity had issued the family with strict instructions that the dress code for us was ‘smart’.
So half an hour later I made my way slowly up Portobello, through the throng of Italian and Japanese tourists, then browsed in the antique shops. I bought Olivia a Victorian silver jewellery box lined with midnight blue velvet, then turned down Westbourne Grove. Five years ago this area was full of antique shops but now the area’s become like a mini King’s Road. Put it this way, it’s got the only Oxfam shop I’ve ever come across which has regular ‘Prada Promotions’.
I bought a copy of the
Post
then sat at a table outside Café 202, sipping a latte in the spring sunshine while I happily read Mark McVeigh’s TV review. Then I crossed the road to Agnès B. As I wandered around I luxuriated not in the clothes themselves, but in the delicious knowledge that lack of money was no longer the gut-churning problem it had been for so long. For the best part of three years I’d bought nothing that wasn’t essential, but now, with a presenting fee for each show on top of my normal pay, I could afford to indulge myself. So I went into Dinny Hall and spent £200 on a pair of gold and pearl earrings, for the simple reason that I
could
. The novelty of such extravagance was delicious. Except that it didn’t feel like extravagance at all. It felt like a reward to myself for having survived such a tough time. Then I looked for something to wear.
I tried on tie-wrap dresses in Diane von Furstenberg, and floaty chiffon skirts in Joseph and Whistles, and cashmere cardigans in Brora, before going into L K Bennett and opting for a dark pink, fitted wool crepe suit which I knew would also look good on the show. I didn’t much like their shoes, so I crossed over the road to Emma Hope, and was just waiting for the assistant to get me a pair of crimson slingbacks in my size when I glanced out of the window. My heart stopped. There was
Luke.
He was walking past on the other side of the road, hand in hand with Jessica, his face alight with love and pride.
My first instinct was to run out of the shop waving and yelling—but he looked so happy, I felt I shouldn’t intrude. Jessica was half-walking, half-skipping, in her blue anorak and her polka-dot wellies, her white-blonde pigtails swinging behind her. Then she must have said something funny because he threw back his head and laughed, then hugged her to him. I felt my heart expand. As I watched them walk over the zebra crossing, past the church and down the road, until they were almost out of sight, I allowed myself to entertain a little fantasy in which Luke and I were living together—with Jessica, Magda having agreed to give Luke custody sothat she could spend more time with the goats. And the three of us had such a nice life…
