Another Love (21 page)

‘You know me too well.’ She smiled, welcoming his loose, brotherly embrace.

‘I do. I have also been keeping track of all the days when it was your turn to make the tea.’ He sprinted to his desk and pulled a piece of paper from under a stack of books. ‘And, according to this, you owe us six hundred and forty cups of tea or coffee and three hundred and forty-six bourbon or custard-cream biscuits. You will, however, be relieved to hear that you don’t have to make them all today; any time over the next month will be fine.’ He smiled.

‘I’ve missed you, Tim.’ She pushed her glasses up onto her nose and tucked her hair behind her ears, ready for business.

‘Oh, don’t think you can get out of tea duty by going all mushy on us!’ He winked. And just like that, she was back in the fold.

Months had passed and her period of absence wasn’t even remembered any more. This made her feel happy and confident in her role. As Romilly hung up her lab coat and said her goodbyes for the night, she did a double-take, surprised to see the familiar Mercedes in the car park. Sara was leaning on the bonnet. Her legs were crossed at the ankle and she was on her phone. Romilly looked to the left and right as if to check that it wasn’t a set-up and David wasn’t about to leap from the bushes and shout, ‘Aha, caught you!’ She wandered over, feeling embarrassed that they’d had so little contact in recent months and unnerved at Sara’s sudden appearance.

She walked slowly, hoping her friend’s call might end soon. It didn’t. Romilly found herself hovering in front of her awkwardly, trying not to listen to the detail as she chatted to Greg, her beau, and practically ignored Romilly, as though she was not standing in close proximity, in the car park of the lab at which she worked. Finally, Sara cooed her loving goodbye and slid her phone off.

‘Right, that’s that,’ she said, folding her phone into her palm as though this were a pre-arranged meeting and not their first encounter since they’d stood awkwardly on the pavement trying to find common ground while Sara confessed to having been banned from her friend’s life. ‘You look gorgeous!’ she exclaimed.

Romilly plucked at the mustard-coloured tunic with the embroidered front panel, ridiculously flattered by Sara’s comments. She’d forgotten that Sara had the ability to do that.

‘Fancy a curry?’

‘A what, sorry?’ The invitation was so random, it threw Romilly a little.

‘A curry! I’ve been gagging for one for weeks but didn’t fancy dining alone. Why don’t we take my car, go get some food. Doesn’t have to be a late one.’ She raised her palms as if in submission. ‘We can have a good old catch-up over a ruby and be back in time for bedtime stories and cocoa. How does that grab you?’ She smiled.

Romilly thought of David and Celeste, who were expecting her home, and recalled the last time Sara had met her from work, so casually and without warning, and how that had ended up.

‘I would like a curry—’

‘Great!’ Sara interjected. ‘Let’s try the new one in Clifton village, it’s supposed to be fab.’

‘But I’m not sure I can tonight.’

‘Oh, come on, Rom! It’s just a curry, us two sharing a naan and putting the world to rights. To be honest I could do with a chat.’

It had been months, literally months since she’d done anything other than work or pace the rooms at home. A curry in Clifton sounded wonderful. ‘Okay. But I’ll have to pop home first, let David know where I’m off to. I don’t want him worrying.’ She kicked the tarmac with the toe of her shoe.

‘Sure. Shall I meet you there then? I’ll go ahead and get the poppadums on order and see you there in, what…?’ She looked at her phone screen, presumably to gauge the time. ‘In about an hour?’

‘Okay, lovely.’ Romilly smiled, feeling a frisson of excitement at the prospect of going out socially and happy to be with Sara, who had the knack of making her feel good.

*

Pulling on the handbrake, she practised yet again what she was going to say. It reminded her of when she was a teen and used to lie to her parents about staying overnight at a friend’s so she could go to a party. It was the same sensation: the metallic taste of deceit overlaid by the sweet promise of doing something fun.

‘Look!’ Celeste ran towards her mum the moment she walked in the door. ‘I’ve got new teeth!’ She bared her gums to show the stump of a little ivory-coloured button poking through the back of her gums.

‘Hey, that’s so great! Congratulations on your new teeth!’ She kissed her face, following as her daughter skipped into the kitchen.

‘Okay, so we have a choice.’ David was preoccupied with the shallow plastic ready-meal trays in his hands. ‘Can I tempt you with lasagne or carbonara?’ He shuffled them in his hands. ‘I don’t mind which, so you get to choose.’

‘Actually, I don’t want either. I’m going out!’ She tried to sound casual, but her eyes flickered nonetheless.

‘Oh.’ His eyebrows knitted together as he placed the cartons on the work surface. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Don’t you mean who are you going with?’ She asked the question that she was dreading hearing, as if bringing it to a head herself might spare them both the dance of getting to the point.

He stared at her but said nothing.

‘Don’t look so worried. I’m just going out with Tim and the guys from work for a curry. Kind of team building, I suppose. I didn’t think you’d mind.’

‘I don’t.’ He glanced at Celeste, who was busy colouring in a picture of a gingerbread cottage. ‘Are you sure you feel up to it?’ he whispered.

‘Yes! It’s a curry and a catch-up, it’ll be fine.’ She nodded.

‘Do you want me to drop you off?’ he offered, sweetly.

‘No, that’s fine, I’ll jump in a cab and one of the guys can drop me back. Parking in Clifton at this time of night is a nightmare.’

‘Okay.’ David sighed, as if steeling himself. ‘If you want to leave early, or want picking up, or anything’s bothering you, or you feel uncomfortable in any way…’ He let this trail. ‘Then text me and I’ll be there before you can say “chicken tikka masala”.’ He kissed her nose. His lips were hot.

She could tell he was nervous, but she was determined to show him that she was capable of leaving the house without getting drunk. ‘I love you, Mr Wells.’ She smiled as she wandered over to hug her daughter goodbye and give her instructions for bed.

‘Proper love,’ he reminded her as she shut the front door behind her.

It’s weird, isn’t it, that the older you get, the better you’re able to look at the map of your life to date and spot the markers, the pivotal moments of change, after which nothing was ever quite the same again. It works for good things and bad. Like the time I first saw Alistair. It was pouring down with rain. He practically marched towards me, stomped through the haze, as though his message was urgent. I turned and watched him striding across the field, waiting to hear what vital information he had to impart. He even jogged the last few steps, as though in a desperate hurry. But when he reached me, he didn’t say anything for a few moments, just put his hands in the pockets of his Barbour and looked out towards the horizon. I followed his eye line and gazed across the sloping landscape towards the big sky. It was dark, menacing.

‘You should see the sunrise from here. On a clear morning, it’s the most beautiful thing you’ll ever see.’

‘I’d like that,’ I said, as though it was an invitation.

He stared at me then and I him, and instead of feeling embarrassed or awkward about looking at this stranger whose name I didn’t even know, it felt wonderful, natural, as if it was expected, the right thing. As if I knew he was going to be important to me and so I had to catch up, learn him.

And, looking back, I can see that the night Mum went out for a curry was the same. It changed things for all of us. And for her, it was the beginning of the end.

Opening just one eye hurt.

She closed it again quickly, battening down her fluttering lids, trying to shut out the shaft of light that had shot through her pupil and pierced her brain. She opened and closed her mouth, licking her dry lips and swallowing. Her tongue was thick, her spit rancid and strands of her hair were in her mouth, a couple down her throat. She gagged. She placed her hand under the covers and felt her thighs wet with the slippery aftermath of sex. A film of sour sweat sat slickly on her skin and her gut churned with the desire to shit or vomit or possibly both. She shivered, as if poorly.

And yet, unbelievably, these were the joyous seconds. These were the happy few moments of oblivion before realisation dawned and her whole world came crashing down. She wondered if there had been a noise or whether the thunderclap that rang out inside her skull had been heard by her alone. Its ricochet as devastating as any bullet.

Holding her breath, she slowly peeled her eyes open. The first thing she saw were unfamiliar wardrobe doors of cheap pine and then dusty floral curtains that fell a couple of inches short of the window sill and sagged from the pole that tried to support them. They let the daylight in. Morning light, to be precise. The room had that particular spicy smell of boys, an acrid combination of feet, sweat, trainers, sex and dirty sheets. She swallowed the bile that rose in her throat.

She was naked. Clinging to the edge of a brown nylon duvet cover, she slowly turned her head to the left and suppressed the scream that built in her throat. A naked back was turned away from her. Pustules and angry spots peppered the greasy skin between the shoulder blades that were muted under a comfortable layer of fat. The man had dark hair and was sleeping, mercifully.

Raking through her jumbled thoughts, she tried to remember something, anything that might give her a clue as to who he was and how she had ended up in this place. Wherever this place was. But there was nothing, not even a hint.

Romilly slipped from the bed with trembling limbs, desperately hoping that he wouldn’t wake. Her head pounded as she reached for her scattered clothes and handbag that lay on the bedroom floor, resting on top of greasy pizza boxes, which were stuffed with dough crusts and used, branded napkins, next to discarded boxer shorts and a wet, stinking towel.

She crept onto the landing, narrowly avoiding a muddy-wheeled mountain bike resting against the banisters and a clotheshorse crowded with items dried stiff as card by central heating. She pulled her mustard-coloured tunic over her head, concentrating on not vomiting and not waking anyone else that might or might not be asleep behind the closed doors of this rather ordinary house.

Glancing at her wrist, she noticed her watch was missing. She swiped her tears with the back of her trembling hand. With a sudden, urgent need to pee, she trod the landing and pushed open the door that was ajar. It was a regular bathroom, the kind you might find in any three-bedroom semi. The bath was avocado green and filthy, with a collection of hair nestling around the plughole. The shelf above the sink was loose, tilting forward and threatening to disgorge its listing cargo of toothpaste tubes, hair wax and loose Q-tips. She hovered over the loo, trying not to look at the slicks of piss and the dark brown streaks in the bowl, cursing the noisy stream that threatened to wake her host. Straightening, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her breath snagged in her throat as fresh tears fell.

Her cheek was creased with the fold of an unfamiliar pillow and her skin was grey. Mascara sat around her eyes in a blackened smear, with darker, heather-coloured bruises beneath. Her fingers shook as she raked her fringe forward.

Tiptoeing down the stairs, she slipped out of the front door and tripped along the street until she found a road sign. She slid the screen of her mobile and noted the time, 7.15.

‘Taxi.’

‘Yes, hello, can you pick me up please?’ she whispered.

‘Where from?’ The man’s voice was hurried.

‘Erm… Seddon Road.’

‘Is that Seddon Road, St Werburghs?’

She nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘Where to, love?’

She sat back on the low wall and sobbed hard, swallowing the tight ball of distress and shame that sat in her throat. Noticing for the first time how filthy her feet were, stuffed into her high heels.

‘Stoke Bishop.’
Home. Please take me home.

She focused on not being sick as the taxi pulled into the cul-de-sac. Fishing in her bag, she found her glasses, which were loose, out of their case and a little out of shape. They sat crookedly on her nose and she could feel they were off centre. She felt out of place, bedraggled and grubby among the manicured lawns, weed-free shingle and netted, organised recycling bins. The rusty cab shuddered to a halt on her quiet instruction. She was certain the knocking engine and wheezing brakes would set all the John Lewis custom-made blinds twitching. Her stomach lurched once more, as she reached into her handbag for her purse, unsure if she had any cash. She briefly imagined the humiliation of having to walk up the drive and ask for money. Thankfully, her fingers found a twenty-pound note, scrunched into a section along with two others and a couple of receipts.

She handed the man the twenty without making eye contact, aware of the disapproval and amusement that dripped from him. They hadn’t chatted, but she knew he’d been stealing glimpses of her bowed head as she’d sat exposed and vulnerable in the back of his car.

‘A good night then?’ He smirked.

It wasn’t his words that distressed her so much as the judgemental manner in which he delivered them. She felt diminished, ashamed that this pot-bellied stranger knew a secret about her.

Doing her best to ignore him, she clambered across the grubby velour upholstery. Trying to look purposeful and confident, she held her house keys in her shaking palm and smiled, flicking her hair over her shoulder, hoping this would fool whoever might be watching into thinking that all was well. Her fingers gripped the key as she tried to steady her nerves. It slid to the left and right, missing the little slot each time. Taking a deep breath, she narrowed her gaze and concentrated. Miraculously, the key found its target and with one push the door swung open.