Between Friends (6 page)

She didn’t talk to anyone except, briefly, her parents. She forced a smile into her voice and told them Tom had gone out for a walk. Her mother adored Tom.

Anger took the place of desolation. How dare he! How dare he break up with her like this, after all they had shared together?

She thumped her fist into a pillow then, dissatisfied, slammed it into the kitchen wall, again and again, until her knuckles bled.

Jane was shaking. How could memories make you shake? She’d put it all behind her, years ago. She jumped up to drain the pasta. It had overcooked and looked horribly gloopy.

Damn Tom Vallely! She
would
not let him get to her.

Ian barrelled into the kitchen full of angry energy.

‘Mu-um. Em and Ross are fighting and Ross won’t let me in to my room.’

‘Oh, Dumpling.’

She scooped him into her arms and buried her face in his soft brown hair, inhaling the scent of him as if it might magically bestow sanity.

‘We’re just about to have supper. Never mind about them.’

She hugged his sturdy young body like a talisman and prayed.

Tom was back, unchanged in all his dangerous charm. Worse – he brought with him the undreamed of possibility that the cover up she had so successfully maintained for all these years might unravel. And then what would happen to the life she had constructed?

Chapter Ten

Portobello was blanketed by damp fog.. Jake called it haar.

‘Sea mist to you,’ he said to Tom.

He was wearing joggers and a T-shirt and looked rumpled and tired, his skinny body oddly childlike. Tom, already dressed in pressed navy chinos and a striped Duchamp shirt, was drinking coffee and reading yesterday’s paper, which had been abandoned on the kitchen table.

‘Get it a lot, do you?’

Jake seemed reluctant to admit any defect in his home city. ‘More than I’d like.’

‘Are you off to get the brew? That’s what they call the dole here, isn’t it?’

‘Not in Edinburgh, no,’ Jake said shortly, refilling the kettle. ‘And I’m not claiming it.’

‘Really?’ Tom was genuinely surprised. ‘Why ever not?’

‘Because, it may have escaped your notice, I am actually working. Where’s the coffee?’

Tom waved at a crumpled packet by the sink.

‘Oh sorry, I finished it. You’ll need to get some more.’

‘Shit. Couldn’t you have left a spoonful?’

‘Hey, mate.’ Tom held his hands in front of him in a protective gesture. ‘Not my fault if there’s not enough.’

He saw Jake’s lips tighten and backtracked quickly. He was going to be at least another week and experience had taught him that charm was an effective tool. He turned the defensive hands into placatory ones and said, ‘I’ll buy another packet when I’m out, okay? My contribution.’

He needed to get to the pawn shop first, though, so he caught a bus into Edinburgh, where the haar was still hanging miserably over the streets. He put his fedora back on his head and stepped off the bus in Princes Street into the dampness. He had donned a soft leather jacket, a present from Angela after a particularly intense weekend of screwing, and he turned up the collar, enjoying the feel of the skin under his fingers. It was a good jacket – though by God, he’d earned it.

The girl in the pawn shop was a dumpy brunette with a surprisingly sweet face. Two attractive dimples appeared as she smiled hello.

‘You’re looking delightful on this depressing day. Love the blouse.’ He gestured at the vulgar floral top she was wearing and added a touch of lust to his gaze. Easy meat.

She blushed and giggled. ‘Have you come to pawn or redeem?’

‘I’ve brought something in today.’ He opened his jacket and felt inside the inner pocket. The heavy brooch he’d found in Marta’s drawer was resting there safely.

‘It was my grandmother’s. I’ll be back for it in a week or two. After pay day.’

‘Sure.’ The girl looked at it curiously. ‘That’s pretty. I’ve never seen anything quite like that.’ She took out an eyeglass and studied it closely in the light of a lamp. ‘Gold. Hallmarked. The stones look real. I’ll have to call Mr MacFarlane.’

‘Fine.’ Tom feigned indifference and busied himself by looking in the display cabinets. He’d done this so often that really he should be more relaxed, because he’d never yet been challenged. Even so, he could feel his heart rate rising as the manager examined the brooch.

‘Your grandmother’s, you say?’

‘Yeah, mate, that’s right. Hard to believe, I know, but my grandmother was in service. Many years ago, of course, she’s been dead now for twenty years or more, bless her. The brooch was a gift from one of the grand ladies she worked for, before the first war, of course.’

‘Not stolen then?’

‘Stolen, mate?’ Tom looked hurt. ‘Why d’you say that?’

‘Seems odd. A man like you, carrying round a brooch like this.’

‘Tell you the truth,’ Tom leant on the counter confidingly, ‘I’m an actor. Up here for the Festival. You know what it’s like – money’s always tight. I need a bit to tide me over till the end of the run. Pay day. Always carry the brooch with me. Can’t tell you how many times it’s seen the inside of a pawn shop. Always come and reclaim it as soon as the old pay packet hits the bank.’

‘Hmm. I don’t like lending outside of the city, certainly not on something like this. It’s a bit risky.’ He laid the brooch on the counter. ‘It’s a fine piece. Old. Scottish.’ He squinted at Tom. ‘The hallmark dates it to the late eighteenth century.’

‘Yeah.’ Scottish. His brain was racing. ‘My dear grandma, she was Scottish.’

‘Hmm. Have we done business before?’

‘Last week. My signet ring.’

‘I thought I remembered you.’

The manager made his decision. He reached for a pad of papers and named a valuation figure. It was much higher than Tom had anticipated. Was there a risk? Might the absence of the brooch be noticed and traced to him? Maybe he’d have to come and redeem it, slip it back in Marta’s drawer. Usually he only took small things, the kind of stuff that wouldn’t be noticed – perhaps taking this brooch had been a mistake?

‘I can’t give you a fraction of that, of course, especially not with you not being local. The risk’s too high.’ He made a considerably lower offer. ‘That okay? How long for?’

Gradually, Tom’s heart began to slow.

‘Seems fair. A week should be fine.’

Surely Marta wouldn’t miss it quickly. He’d be able to redeem it as soon as his run finished.

At last the formalities were completed.

‘Your ticket, sir. Fine piece, if I may say so.’

‘Thanks.’

Tom took the documentation, folded it carefully and placed it neatly between the pages of his pocket notebook. He smiled at the girl, simpering in her silly blouse, and left the shop with an idea – he would go and visit Janie. Why not?

The dampness was lifting at last and some warmth was creeping into the day. Removing his jacket, Tom hooked it onto a finger and trailed it over his shoulder. He would walk.

‘Mrs Porter. And looking not a day older, I swear.’

A dog was playing round the elderly woman’s feet, a yappy, shaggy creature.

‘Benji! Hush!’

Evelyn Porter bent to scold the dog. Tom could see the pink of her scalp through the thinness of her hair, but lying cost him nothing. He took off his fedora and smiled.

‘Tom? Tom Vallely?’

Her eyes had aged too. A pale ring lurked round the iris, but her expression had brightened considerably.

‘How wonderful. But how—?’

He stooped to take her arms firmly in his hands and turned his head to air kiss lavishly beside each of her furrowed cheeks.

‘Didn’t Jane tell you I was here? I’m desolated.’

‘She’s met you?’

‘Last week. We had dinner at Marta Davidson’s. Am I to be invited in or must I stand forever in the garden?’

‘I’m so sorry, Tom. Of course, do come in. I was just surprised – Jane, look who’s here to see you. What are you doing in Edinburgh? What have you been doing all this time? I’m sure Jane – here she is – Jane, dear, it’s Tom.’

‘Hello, Janie.’

‘I’m astonished that you’ve got the n-n-nerve to come here.’

‘Just wanted to see you, Janie. You won’t deny me that, will you? Hey? Just a quiet chat? Last week there were so many people around.’

‘Of course you want a wee talk together,’ Mrs Porter was muttering to Jane. ‘I’m just away now, in any case.’

‘No!’ Jane’s voice was vehement.

‘You haven’t seen him for such a long time, dearie. I’d love to stay and catch up with all your news, Tom, but I’ve got a hair appointment in twenty minutes.’

‘T-Tom. Go.’

She was holding firm. Maybe she had changed, then.

‘I’ve walked all the way from Princes Street, Jane. Surely you’ll offer me a cup of tea, after all these years? Witchy?’

He could see the hesitation – the merest fraction of a beat, but it was enough. He laughed softly.

‘I don’t take sugar any more. But I did bring you some biscuits.’

He tossed the fedora onto the coat rack and felt in the pocket of the jacket. Coming through Morningside he’d passed a deli and spotted the Leibniz dark chocolate biscuits that had been Jane’s passion.

‘There, Jane, isn’t that lovely. He’s remembered. Now Tom dear, I must go, but I’ll see you before you disappear, now, won’t I? I want to hear all your news.’

‘Of course, Mrs Porter. I’ll come round again, just say the word.’

‘Bye Jane. I’ll collect Ian from school.’

Jane still hadn’t moved.

‘Where’s your kettle?’

As he moved towards her, she jumped aside.

‘Hey. What’s this? Witchy?’ He stopped a few inches in front of her and looked at her searchingly. ‘No need to be afraid, Janie dearest. Life’s moved on, hasn’t it?’

Tom could feel tremors. She was like a rabbit, trapped and fearful. What fun. There it was again, the old feeling of power. Even the stirring of desire.

No. That would be unwise.

‘There.’

He kissed her forehead and stepped into the kitchen.

‘Nice. Bit shambolic, perhaps. Not like your friend Marta’s house. Now there’s a woman who likes to be organised, don’t you agree? Kettle? Oh yes, here it is. Mugs? You’ll have tea too, I hope ?’

‘What do you want, T-Tom?’

He swung round and looked at her.

‘Want? Just to see you, Janie, that’s all. Talk about the old times. Here. Shall we sit down?’

She sank onto a chair obediently. Already she was a servant to his will, no longer mistress of her own home.

Old patterns replaying themselves. Learned behaviour. Remembered ways. He’d always loved the way she bent so pathetically to his will.

‘So. Tell me. What’s new in your life, Janie? Or no, I think I can tell you that. Let me see. The husband. Solid man you have there, Witchy. A bit unimaginative, I reckon, not the creative type, more of a plodder, hardly sex on legs but loyal, I would guess. Am I right? Quite unlike me, in fact, in almost every respect.’

He laughed, a real laugh, from the stomach.

‘Not a bad thing, I suppose, bearing in mind my track record.’

Jane sat like a stick, straight but brittle, ready to splinter at the slightest pressure.

‘Three children. Are these the dear mites?’

He picked up an old school photograph from the dresser. ‘I would have thought they would be a little older, or did you decide to wait a bit? After your little mistake.’

Little mistake.

That first week – Christmas week – she didn’t eat, sleep, or talk to anybody, she just walked round the streets, through the parks, tramping the soles off her shoes until she could feel every rut, every crack on the pavement, every pebble, on the paths. Then it was back to work. Music was her balm. Music would help her heal.

One day when she was out at a rehearsal, he sneaked back and packed all his things. He even took some of her favourite CDs and she no longer had the energy to be angry. She struggled across town to rehearsals, bowed her way mechanically through concerts, found a way to survive.

Then it got worse – much worse.

She was numb. She wasn’t eating much. She began to suffer heartburn. She felt wretched, exhausted and querulous. She plodded doggedly into rehearsals and prayed that her lack of form didn’t show.

One day, standing on the Tube clutching her cello, she was staring vacantly at a beautiful young woman with the blackest of skin and the sweetest face and thinking vaguely how nice it would be to be able to paint, when the light in the train receded to a pinprick. For a moment, all she could see was a large gold cross glistening on the soft contours between the girl’s breasts. And then that, too, went dark and the last thing Jane was aware of was a dull thump.

Later, she realised the noise must have been her body hitting the floor of the carriage. She resurfaced at some point to a circle of curious faces peering down at her and a sensation akin to seasickness. She closed her eyes, turned her face to one side, and felt the roughness of tweed on her cheek. Someone had rolled up a coat and placed it under her head.

‘You alright, my darling? Clear a space, folks, give the girl some air.’

Her angel was brisk and kind and turned out to be a nurse at St Thomas’s Hospital. She was large and very black and spoke with a strong Welsh accent.

‘You feel better, my lovely? Did you have breakfast this morning?’

She chattered inconsequentially and steadily until Jane grew calmer and the crowds lost interest.

‘My cello!’ Anxiety flooded through her and the sweat stood cold on her forehead.

‘Here. It’s safe.’

Someone thrust the case into her hands and she grabbed at it with relief.

‘You go to your doctor, now, promise?’

‘I promise. And thank you. Thank you so much.’

‘You’re welcome, my darling. Take care now.’

A few days later, and only because she had promised, Jane walked into her local surgery convinced that she would be prescribed a placebo and instructed to go away and eat sensibly.

The doctor’s words make no sense.

‘You’re pregnant, Mrs Porter.’

There was a nick on his throat, an early morning shaving error, onto which he had stuck a blob of cotton wool. It wiggled grotesquely up and down as he spoke.

‘Miss.’

‘Miss Porter.’ His smile disappeared and the cotton wool froze as he scanned her notes.

It hit her later, as she walked out of his consulting room and onto a damp pavement.

Pregnant.

With Tom’s child.

They had never discussed children, it hadn’t been on the radar, it was too early, their livelihoods were too precarious, but now –
pregnant
?

She itched to tell him. The baby was a blessing from heaven. Her beautiful man would come back to her and all would be well.

She was in the flat at midday, which almost never happened. She’d been violently sick in the morning and was still feeling wretched.

The lock scraped. Someone was opening the front door. Tom! It was four days, seven hours and sixteen minutes since she’d left the doctor’s surgery, and she had been rubbing her lamp and making her wish a thousand and one times.

Her genie appeared.

‘Hello, Tom.’

‘Jane!’

‘You’ve come back.’

‘Just for the last of my things. I didn’t think you’d be here.’

‘But I am.’

‘So I see.’

She turned, filled the kettle, replayed her tidings in her head, selected words.

‘Tea?’

‘No. Thanks. I’m just here to—’

She dumped the kettle on the counter and swung round to face him.