Lifesaver (22 page)

Adam laughed, but there was sympathy on his face.

‘She lost the spark in her eyes after Daddy died,’ I finished, feeling suddenly sad. ‘Sorry, I’m really banging on, aren’t I? You’re a very good listener.’

‘You’re a very good talker.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment, shall I?’

‘Do…So how old were you when she died?’

‘Twenty seven. Olly was twenty-four. There was only a month between when she was diagnosed and when she died. She just hadn’t been able to accept it. Didn’t have time to, I suppose.’

She’d gone, “raging at the dying of the light”, railing against everyone: God, us, herself, the doctors, the NHS…It had been terrible, but Lil gathered all three of us up in her thin strong arms and got us through it, moving into Mum’s house and taking care of her and us. Mum never had any idea of how much Lil had done for her.

‘She just did not want to go. Not that anybody ever does, I suppose...Anyway, tell me something about you instead.’

As Adam opened his mouth, I realised exactly how comfortable I felt in his house—more comfortable, somehow, than I did in my own home. Guilt pricked at the back of my neck as I visualised Ken already back from work, fixing himself a drink and calling the office in LA whilst watching
Eastenders
with the volume muted. He’d have been peeling his socks away from his feet, probably at that very moment, and thinking about what to cook. I ought to give him a call on the way back to tell him that I’d already eaten. I thought of his text message and wondered what the surprise was that he had waiting for me.

‘Before I forget,’ Adam said, ‘are you up for this end-of-project dinner I’m planning? Nothing too fancy, probably just a few beers and a curry at the Raj. Or maybe a pizza. Haven’t decided yet.’

‘When is it?’ I smiled back at him. Although I had to admit the prospect of dinner with Mitch and Ralph present wasn’t exactly riveting - I wasn’t sure that there could be anything left in Ralph’s life that he hadn’t already told me about. Perhaps he’d announce that he slept upside down hanging from the rafters. Or offer to show me his operation scars and ingrowing toenails; while Mitch would probably get drunk on snakebite and try and persuade me to stroke his hairy arms - anyhow, it represented another definite meeting with Adam, and might in turn lead to the next encounter with Max which, I reminded myself, was the main incentive.

‘A week on Saturday. Will we see you at the project again before then, or shall I just take your phone number and give you a call about it nearer the time?’

‘Oh, I’m hoping to do another couple of days on the panels. Although it sort of depends on whether I hear about this job or not. I might have to go up to London for another interview. Would you mind if I take your number and give you a ring?’

He didn’t seem to mind that I had to declined to give him my number, and wrote his own down with one of Max’s felt tips on a corner of a page of the previous weekend’s Observer magazine, which he ripped off and handed to me. I tucked it into the side pocket of my combat trousers, and we sank companionably against the back of the sofa again.

‘Max is really, really wonderful,’ I said, gazing across at the photos of him.

Adam rubbed his chin and looked pleased. ‘Thank you. Yes, he’s a fantastic kid. I don’t know how he manages to be so cheerful all the time, after everything he’s been through. Still—kids don’t know anything else, do they? He just does seem to be naturally sunny.’

‘He is,’ I agreed. ‘But I’m sure that’s all credit to you. You should see my goddaughter, Crystal. She’s only a few months younger than Max, but, boy, she hardly opens her mouth except to complain about something. She’s like a four year old version of Johnny Vegas, only not intentionally funny. I do love her, though. I just don’t think she gets enough attention.’

‘I worry that Max gets too much. I mean, we all had to put our lives on hold for him when he was ill, and if he said “jump” we’d all say “how high, Max?” Not that I begrudge it; I love spending time with him. But I do sometimes worry that he ought to be a little more independent.’

‘I think you do an amazing job, taking care of him,’ I said with feeling. ‘He’s clearly very content and stable.’ My eyes were drawn to the photo of him with his mother, and I was dying to ask—but I couldn’t. Instead I said: ‘It must have been terrible when he was ill.’

I saw Adam’s shoulders instantly tense up. He didn’t say anything for a moment, and then when he did speak, he was staring at a spot on the ceiling.

‘It was the worst time of my whole life. Every morning for two years, I thought, I can’t bear it. I don’t want to get out of bed, because I can’t bear seeing my son so sick; with all the needles and tubes and machines. Being so thin, and losing his hair, and not being able to keep anything down. He couldn’t play, or run around—or, for a while, even walk or talk. He was too wiped out. It was just terrible… But we had to let the doctors do what they had to do, because the only thing worse than watching him suffer was the thought that he might die. And, in a weird sort of way, however terrible it was, we got used to it. I got so used to not being able to bear it, that I bore it. If you see what I mean.’

I was so horrified to see tears swimming in Adam’s eyes that I didn’t even notice the one rolling down my own cheek. I swallowed hard, but he saw, and when he put his hand on mine and squeezed it, I didn’t move away. In fact, it seemed the most natural thing in the world for me to turn my palm up and let our fingers intertwine.

‘I’m sorry to bring it up and upset you like that,’ I said. ‘He is—he’s OK now though, you said, isn’t he?’ I wanted to hear Adam say it again.

Adam nodded and smiled, still holding my hand. ‘Yes. He’s OK now. And I’m sorry I got all heavy on you. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to remember it without getting upset, as long as I live.’

‘It’s fine.’

He turned and looked in my face, and I felt such a surge of connection that I just stared mutely back at him. I had a sudden flash of fear: people say that you know when you meet your soulmate. I’d thought I had that when I met Ken - but what if I’d been wrong?

Then I remembered Ken at home, waiting, and his angular, kind, tired face, and I knew that however much I identified with Adam, had even begun to fancy him, it was Ken who I loved.

‘I’m really glad to get to know you a bit better, Anna,’ said Adam, still holding my gaze, and my hand.

‘Me you too,’ I said awkwardly, feeling like a teenager. ‘It’s been a lovely evening, and thanks again for rescuing me.’ I made a big show of looking at my watch, which involved extricating my hand. I was genuinely shocked to discover that it was past eight o’clock. ‘Oh crikey, I must go. I’m, um, expecting a call this evening.’

I stood up, and Adam followed suit. We were standing, slightly hemmed in by the coffee table bearing our unfinished glasses of wine. He was much taller than me, and of course broader, but when he tentatively leaned forward and hugged me, we seemed to fit together. I hugged him back equally tentatively at first, and then with more conviction - his chest was warm and solid, so different to Ken’s narrow torso. Ken was the one I loved, but it didn’t stop the hug from feeling great. Adam smelled musty and sweet. I didn’t dare raise my cheek from where it was pressed against his collarbone, because if I had, I knew I’d have been tempted to see if his lips were as soft as I was guiltily imagining they were…

Maybe it was the novelty of being hugged by somebody other than my husband, or maybe I did just genuinely feel I’d bonded with this man, but my body was responding in spontaneous ways; ways which it hadn’t done with Ken in quite some time. I had to pull away from Adam in case he felt my nipples harden against his chest.

I felt awful: awful, and tremendously aroused at the same time. It wasn’t a comfortable feeling.

‘Right, well, thanks again,’ I gabbled, grabbing my bag from the sofa and checking that I had my phone.

‘Ring me about the curry, or pizza or whatever. I should know what we’re doing in about a week or so. Good luck with the soap job in the meantime,’ said Adam, grinning at me, and rubbing the side of my arm affectionately. There was something extremely endearing about his easy familiarity with me. ‘And maybe we could get together ourselves, soon?’ he added.

I tried to convince myself that the only reason I was agreeing was because of Max. ‘Definitely. Perhaps we could take Max for a picnic or something?’

‘Great. Let’s arrange it at the group dinner, or give me a call. I might not be around at Moose Hall that much from now on - I’ve got to start planning my courses for this term. I’ve left Serena in charge.’

‘OK. Well, see you at the dinner then.’

‘Yes. Look forward to it.’

I ran across the road and got swiftly into my car, relieved that my tyres hadn’t been slashed or my paintwork scarred. Adam was waving from the doorway, but I still looked nervously around me to make sure there were no slouching figures emerging from alleys. The memory of the incident had already faded, though, after the joy of spending the evening with Max and Adam. I’d seen Max’s bedroom! He liked me! Adam liked me! … Although that probably wasn’t something to be quite so jubilant about. I felt worried for a while, and then as I accelerated round the roundabout towards the London Road, I cheered up again. I could handle Adam. It was actually great that we liked one another so much. It would be easy to damp down the mutual attraction into friendship, I was sure it would. I’d just have to plan my words carefully, and make sure I didn’t lead him on. So, no more hugs then. Which was a shame. He’d been lovely to hug.

In fact, I convinced myself as I sped along the Roman road out of the town, it was probably all in my mind anyway. Our evening could just as easily have been construed as a developing friendship as a burgeoning relationship. More than likely, it was just my own vanity, assuming that he fancied me.

The light was fading, and the hedgerows at the roadside began to blur into bosky shapes only occasionally illuminated by the lights of oncoming vehicles. I couldn’t see the beautiful patchwork of fields on the hillsides beyond those hedges, but knowing that they were there was comforting. Gradually learning the topography of the landscape seemed to be part of the validation of my claim on Gillingsbury, and on Adam and Max. Along with the feel of Adam’s warm hand, and the closeness of our hug.

My guilt evaporated. However weird and screwed up it all was, it was also somehow
right.
It had been a lovely evening; Adam was a lovely man, and Max was even lovelier. I had made two new friends, and however logistically tricky it was going to be to juggle them with my life at home with Ken, I just knew it would be worth it. I would make it work.

‘I’m home!’ I called as soon as I got in the front door. My shoulders felt stiff and my eyes tired from driving ninety miles too fast in failing light, and my bladder was seriously overburdened, but I was happy to be back. I hobbled towards the downstairs bathroom, waiting to hear Ken’s welcoming voice, but there was no answer.

When I emerged, feeling several gallons lighter, the house was still and gloomy, no nice cooking smells or welcoming hum and flicker of television to greet me as I wandered about. My heart missed a beat when I saw a note, scribbled on the back of one of Ken’s chart printouts, propped up against a vase containing some freesias well past their prime. My guilty conscience reared up again, assuming that he’d somehow discovered I had been out cooking dinner for another man and not babysitting at all. I told myself to get a grip - there was no way he’d be cruel enough to text message saying he had a nice surprise for me and that he loved me, if he’d been about to leave me. Besides, hadn’t I already decided that I had nothing to feel guilty about? Nothing had happened at Adam’s. Hugging was what friends did, wasn’t it?

I unfolded the note with trepidation, but all it said was: ‘Tried to ring to see what time you’d be back’ - damn, I’d forgotten to call him en route. Although that was probably just as well. It would have been hard to call from the motorway, pretending I was actually sitting watching TV in a living room somewhere.

‘Decided to get a quick game of tennis in. Back at 9.30. Look in the breadbin!’

The breadbin? Maybe his surprise was that he’d baked me some cookies. That would indeed have been a surprise—Ken was a superb cook., but in that exclusively male way; all for effect rather than for provision’s sake. He could knock up an astonishingly good skate wing on a base of puy lentils, but I’d never known him to bake anything as mundane as a muffin or a flapjack.

I lifted the lid of the breadbin. Inside was a British Airways cardboard envelope. Oooh, I thought with a rush of pleasure, hadn’t I just been dreaming about how nice it would be to get away for a holiday? I had visions of Barbados at Christmas, or maybe sooner, maybe a nice quiet Tuscan villa in September, when it was still warm but not too hot there. I’d need a new bikini—if I did a gazillion sit-ups every day between now and—

I got the first shock—
next week?
He’d booked us two tickets to Ibiza, departing next Saturday! I squinted at the itinerary. But what about the night out in Gillingsbury? There was no way I was prepared to miss that.

I was so flummoxed that I didn’t hear Ken come in behind me.

‘What do you think?’ he said, the pride in his voice unmistakeable even as I was jumping out of my skin with fright.

‘You startled me,’ I said, leaping up, still holding the tickets. ‘Hi, darling.’

I kissed him, but couldn’t meet his eyes. He was still in his tennis gear, the dark hair on his chest showing through the damp white shirt sticking to his skin.

‘Good match?’

He nodded, wiping his forehead on the hem of the shirt, then frowned. ‘Yeah, but Simon thrashed me: 6-3, 6-2. Forget that, though, what about the holiday?’

I opened my mouth, but it was a good few seconds before any words formed.

‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘I know, I know, I bet you thought I’d never be able to get two weeks off. I managed to get hold of Olly—don’t ask me how, it was a nightmare—and he says he knows a hotel that’s not too full of girls in white stilettos, and he’s been working in this great club—’