Come Back to Me (6 page)

Mark arrived at the house in a foul mood. An hour's journey on a winter's night had taken him more than twice as long as it should have done. Had he not felt so tired, he would have been furious and vowing to write to somebody important over this disgrace of a transport system. Leaves on the line, snow on the line – even bloody bodies on the line, according to one whispered remark behind him. There was something utterly repulsive about the mindset of a commuter, that now, every time he heard of a body on the line his only thought was, ‘Well, get it off the bloody line, then, and let's be on our way.'

In actual fact a train had broken down ahead of the one Mark was on, so he had to get off and board a bus between Orpington and Sevenoaks. At that point he'd tried to call his parents to collect him rather than suffer the indignity of bus travel with a plague of hyperactive adolescents, the
boys' low-slung waistbands beginning on roughly the same portion of their bodies as the girls' tiny skirts ended. However, the house phone at The Willows rang out without even the answering machine clicking on, so Mark endured the bumpy, windy bus ride with his head stuck determinedly behind his paper, not reading a word, but checking his watch every two seconds until the bus pulled up outside Sevenoaks Station.

Thank god there was a cab there. He pushed his way through the throngs on the platform and raced along the walkway with his arm outstretched and a silent plea that no one would claim it first. The cabbie nodded as he got in and said, ‘Barnfield Drive, please', then they were off. Mercifully, the driver was a silent let's-get-you-there type rather than one of the let's-get-it-all-off-my-chest-on-the-way cabbies Mark dreaded. Cab time was vital court-prepping time, and you didn't need someone asking your advice about importing their underage Thai girlfriend.

When he finally arrived he was somewhat disconcerted to find the house in total darkness. It wasn't a major problem, he had a key, but still – as they had invited him over, they should at least be home.

He let himself in and switched on a few lights. The answering machine on the Edwardian rosewood table in the hallway showed a resolute 0 messages. The curtains to the front rooms were still open, so he went around closing them, wondering where on earth his parents could be. The house seemed so quiet now, since the dog had died a few years before.

He peeked into his father's study, feeling like a trespassing
child, hearing his father saying to his ten-year-old self, ‘The law is the foundation upon which society stands, and also upon which it falls. Ergo, to uphold the law is the most important job that one can do,' as Mark was allowed to handle legal books reverently as though they were lost covenants. But the room was absolutely still.

He went back to the lounge, poured himself some Glenmorangie and sat down on one of the leather armchairs, idly picking up a nearby
National Geographic
and flicking through it with no real interest in the content. His mind kept drifting towards shiny dark hair and mesmerising brown eyes. Bloody hell, why on earth couldn't he just let it go; even thinking about her made him feel like an idiot.

Two hours and a few more glasses of whisky later, he was exhausted. He had tried both parents' mobiles, but they were off. He briefly thought about ringing hospitals or checking the news for car accidents, but he couldn't imagine his father rushing into a panic in the same situation – in fact, Henry would just have been enraged at the inconsideration – and his resolve stiffened. He would go to bed, sleep on it, and if they weren't home by morning he would be sure something was up. He'd grown up with a father promising to be places and turning up hours late, if at all, due to some kind of emergency court session/meeting/law function. Perhaps his mother had been dragged into some such thing and they'd forgotten he was coming – they'd arranged it a couple of weeks ago, after all.

He pulled at his loose tie, brought it over his head and folded it into a small neat oblong. Then he made his way wearily up the stairs, grateful now for the sandwich he'd
grabbed on the train, which at the time he'd thought of as a stale appetiser for the decent meal he would be getting at home.

He had just crawled beneath the sheets when he heard the front door open, and footsteps echo through the hallway then up the stairs. They paused on the landing outside his door, but Mark froze, annoyed at his parents now for being so tardy. Not long after they moved on, he was asleep.

 

When Mark woke up, light was marauding through the gap between the curtains. He knew something was wrong. He couldn't believe that he
hadn't
known it the night before. A quick check of his mobile told him it was ten past eight, and he pulled on some clothes before rushing downstairs.

His mother sat at the kitchen table, one hand pressed to her forehead as she brooded over a cup of tea.

‘Where were you last night?' he asked tersely.

‘I needed to go out.'

‘Well, that's nice. You invite me over for dinner then neither of you can be bothered to turn up. Thanks a lot.'

‘Oh, Mark,' his mother turned on him with a glare. ‘Stop being such a pouty little boy. That's the last thing I need right now, seeing as your father's run off in a sulk.'

‘What? What do you mean? Why didn't you wake me?' Mark replied, more angrily than he intended.

‘There's nothing you can do,' his mother said, not looking up.

‘Why … what …?' Mark asked, uncomprehending. ‘Where's Dad gone?'

Finally, his mother looked at him. Her face had lost some of its usual composure. Her cheeks sagged, her eyes were red.

‘I don't know,' she sighed. ‘He just left.'

‘Left?' Mark was mystified. ‘What? What do you mean left?'

‘He packed a bag, and left.' His mother shrugged her shoulders. ‘He didn't tell me where he was going. When I asked him, he told me to fuck off.'

Mark couldn't help it, the laugh was out before he could stop it. ‘Don't be silly,' was all he said. At which point his mother rose slowly and imperiously from her seat. She put her hands on the table, leaned forward, and, with such vehemence that Mark took a step back, hissed, ‘Don't you
ever
say that to me.
Ever.
' She waved a finger at him then paused, eyeing him mirthlessly, before she sighed and said coldly, ‘Stop trying to make yourself into an identical version of your father.' She gave a rasping laugh, warped and humourless. ‘
That
is not such a great thing to be, Mark. I'd aim a bit higher, if I were you.'

Mark held up his hands in surrender, though anger began to course through him at her words. ‘Well then, Mum, why don't you explain this to me properly, and then I might have more chance of understanding exactly what's going on.'

Emily Jameson turned her empty eyes towards him. ‘He's been in one hell of a mood for a while, then he came home yesterday, wouldn't say two words to me, packed a bag and told me he was leaving. When I'd ranted enough he grabbed me by the shoulders and told me it was for my own good! Hah!' She turned around abruptly so he couldn't see her face,
and stared out of the kitchen window. ‘I always knew he was a condescending, supercilious bastard – I knew there'd be a few floosies somewhere, a few tarts lurking on the side – but I
never
thought he'd actually leave.' Her voice broke on the ‘
never
'.

Mark was rendered speechless by this outburst.
Floosies? Tarts?
Eventually, to break the awkward deadlock, he moved forward and clumsily put his arm around her shoulders. ‘Mum …'

She shook off his arm. ‘Don't patronise me. I know how much you idolise that man – just leave me alone.'

Mark remained where he was, still staggered by what he was hearing.

‘GO!' she shouted, her hands pushing against his chest in a surge of strength before she seemed to succumb to an intense tiredness, collapsing back on to her chair, whispering, ‘Please, just leave me alone.'

Mark moved into the hallway in a daze. He walked calmly upstairs, finished getting dressed, and grabbed the rest of his things. He heard his mother's brisk movements in the kitchen, and various crashes of china, pots and pans. Suddenly he was infuriated. He felt his heart harden, and he marched downstairs, banging the front door shut loudly without looking back.

As he walked down the drive he used his mobile to phone a taxi. Ten minutes, the man said. Mark leaned against the gate, trying to shut out his parents' troubles. He couldn't remember the last time he'd waited here – probably not since the school bus collected him en route to the high school, when he'd hope that Stuart Gaskell and David Tamworth
were in a good mood and might give him a day off the constant goading and ear flicking and skin pinching that was their forte. Now, at the memory of them, he almost smiled. He hadn't thought about them for such a long time – yet their pettiness had once been the sum of his concerns.

His mobile phone began to trill. Mark looked at the phone but didn't recognise the number.

‘Mark Jameson,' he announced as he answered it.

‘Mark, it's Alex,' came the voice. ‘Sorry to ring you on a Sunday …'

Mark felt irritation well up in him at the same time as disappointment crushed against his chest. He hadn't realised how much he'd hoped it would be his dad, calling to explain what the hell was going on.

‘… I just wondered if you have a number for … Julia,' Alex was saying as Mark tried to refocus on the voice in his ear. ‘… I need … I would like to contact her.'

I just bet you would, Mark thought. Alex's tone might have been polite, but it came across as condescension marked with disdain. The smug bastard already had Chloe, and now he was muscling in on the one woman whose recent presence had pierced through Mark's general lethargy towards the opposite sex.

‘Alex …' he cut in.

‘Yes?'

‘Go to hell,' Mark growled as he snapped the phone shut.

‘Why were you so upset last night, Chlo?'

That's what Chloe had been waiting to hear – in the car on the way home from June and George's; in her mother's guest bedroom surrounded by primrose wall paper; at breakfast the next morning when her mother left the room. She was still waiting, and they were in the car only half an hour from home. If he could only have asked the question she would have blurted out exactly why. She was desperate to talk, but as Alex commented on petrol prices, roadworks, her mother's back garden (‘very overgrown, considering she's in the gardening club – it could be so nice') her growing anger began to form knots in her stomach. She put a protective hand on her abdomen.

She winced every time she remembered Alex's dismissive comments last night. How could she tell him about the baby now, knowing that he would be disappointed and upset – so
far from the overjoyed reaction she had previously pictured. Okay, so it wasn't planned, as such, but they had talked about children and always agreed they would love to have them someday.

The Alex that Chloe had seen in the past few days was becoming less and less recognisable. She could have sworn she knew her husband inside out, but now doubts had begun to plague her.
How many secrets does he have? Do I know him at all?
She tried to think about the skeletons in her closet – not that there were many – the things she'd deliberately never told Alex. Like the time Mark had tried to kiss her after a work evening out a few months before her wedding. She hadn't told Alex as she thought it would just cause trouble, and she'd handled it. And Mark had been steaming drunk. Besides, all people have such secrets, she consoled herself. And Alex must have them too.

Julia was simply one of them.

Isn't it fair enough that he never told me about her if he had not foreseen her intruding into our lives?

Perhaps, she said to herself. But the point was that now she had, and for that reason Chloe felt she deserved an explanation.

She thought of all the things they'd shared. Alex's frustrations with his parents and brother. Chloe's confusion about her own early life – her mother always changed the subject when she asked about her real father, saying the divorce was messy and he'd cut off contact with the children soon afterwards. When her brother had moved to America, Chloe knew he had hopes of finding their dad, but so far she'd heard nothing, and now Anthony seemed to avoid the
subject as well. She didn't want to live like that, tiptoeing through life as though it were a minefield of secrets.

I'll talk to Alex when I get home, she decided. Once we've had a chance to get showered and changed and we're sitting down for the evening. Then we can have a nice long talk, and I can try to get to the bottom of what's bothering him before I tell him about the baby. After all, she reassured herself, delaying that announcement for a day or so was of little consequence if it meant the difference between it bringing them closer together or pushing them further apart.

For the rest of the journey Chloe struggled to sleep with the radio blaring. Alex's eyes never wavered from the road. When their house finally came into view, she breathed heavily with relief. Not long now, and it would all come out. She wasn't letting him put her off any more.

She rushed to get changed when they came in. She turned the shower taps on and stood inert as warmth poured onto her, restoring some desperately needed vitality. She pressed her hands against her stomach, trying to picture a microscopic baby in there. Trying to imagine herself standing there in seven or eight months' time, hands over the same skin, vastly distended by a growing baby. It was impossible to believe she would be a mother soon. What kind of mother was she going to make? Would her child grow up as she did, feeling mainly sadness when it thought of its family, or feeling duty-bound to drive 500 miles over a weekend to see a parent it couldn't really relate to in any way, shape or form?

Could she raise a happy child?

Would she raise it with Alex, or was that doomed too, just like her own parents' relationship? Perhaps her mother
had once stood in the shower, drowning in her own fears while the water poured over.

Doubts began to flood over Chloe. Briefly, she thought of abortion. Then Alex would never need to know. Possibilities streamed through her brain, but she knew that, regardless of what happened with Alex, she wanted this baby. It's just this wasn't how she'd imagined feeling on finding out her first child was on its way.

It was no good. She needed to talk to Alex now, and put this thing behind them before her fears gained too firm a grip on her.

As Chloe grabbed a towel, she heard the telephone ring and Alex pick up. His voice downstairs was muffled, and she thought there was an edge to it.

She had dried herself and was beginning to towel her hair when he walked into the bedroom. She looked up and caught his eye, then he turned and grabbed his keys from the dresser.

‘I'm really sorry, Chlo, it was Mum – I need to go and check on Jamie, he's not answering his phone and she's worried.'

‘Now?' she asked. It wasn't the first time this had happened, but her heart sank at the timing. She knew that Jamie's parents were pleased their two sons were living close to one another, so that Alex could keep an eye on his taciturn and solitary younger brother, but it meant Alex often had to deal with the fallout from Jamie's unpredictability.

Alex's face was dark with what looked like anger. He sighed. ‘I know, it's not ideal, but what can I do?'

It was Chloe's turn to sigh. She looked at her feet and
nodded. After a weekend spent indulging her mother she had little right to complain if Alex's family needed him.

He made for the door, and shouted from beyond it, ‘I'll be as quick as I can.'

The front door banged shut behind him seconds later. Chloe was left frozen, one hand holding the hairbrush, the other tightly gripping a soggy towel. Now he had gone she struggled to stay rational. What if that had been an excuse? What if he were avoiding her? Avoiding any extra time with her when she might ask him questions he didn't want to answer? Perhaps he was really going to see Julia …

She dashed to the phone and called Jamie's mobile. No answer. Then his home number. Nothing. She slowly straightened, making sure she didn't catch her own eye in the bedroom mirror, and picked out her comfy tracksuit bottoms and a fleecy top, throwing them on rapidly and running downstairs. She then chopped a mountain of vegetables and threw them one by one into a hissing and spitting wok, stirring the mixture and making sure that the sizzling noise was the only thing she let past the perimeters of her thoughts. Once she had a bowl of steaming food, she turned the telly on, volume high, and munched and stared, munched and stared. Every now and again she let her gaze wander to the clock on the wall, and small calculations would flutter through her head.

She remained rooted to the spot for the rest of the evening, not daring to move lest the protective spell she'd woven around herself be broken.