One Moment, One Morning (10 page)

It all means that the prospect of living without him is scarier, less certain. Anna feels like a tent without enough guy ropes, caught in a wind, vulnerable, flailing, as if she will blow away easily. And though she is aware it is only a touch of what Karen must be feeling, it is horrible nonetheless.

Why Simon? she wonders, tucking herself more closely into the hollow of Steve’s C-shape for solace. Why Karen? Why now? She knows it’s supposed to be part of a bigger picture; all things happen for a reason, blah blah blah . . . but she just doesn’t get it. Karen and Simon are such good people, so kind and loving. They haven’t hurt anyone she knows of, they don’t deserve such punishment, it is so unfair.

Then she hears her mother’s voice, from decades back, when she herself was small, explaining: ‘But, dear, the
world
is unfair.’ Then the phrase was used to justify other children having more than Anna did: guests having bigger helpings of pudding, friends with nicer toys, classmates getting more pocket money. A simple philosophy, for sure, but the only one that seems to make any sense of everything that has happened.

*     *     *     

In her house a few streets away, Karen is alone, lying on her back, eyes wide open, looking at the ceiling through the darkness. In twenty years she and Simon have spent very few nights away from each other; she still cannot remotely grasp how her life has changed from the way it was twenty-four hours ago. The king-sized bed is a yawning gulf of Simon’s absence. Normally, she sleeps easily, deeply. Out in seconds, awake a neat eight hours later. She doesn’t get up to go to the loo, or anything. Only if one of the children cries does she stir, and even then Simon normally surfaces sooner, so he often deals with the problem. But tonight he’s not there and Karen can’t sleep, and she knows she won’t. She can’t cry, she can’t move. All she can do is be. And wait for morning.

She is still lying there when, two hours later, there is a pit-pat of small feet across the landing, the sound of the door handle turning, and the room is flooded by a stripe of light in the centre of which stands a familiar silhouette.

Luke. He is trailing Blue Crocodile.

‘Can’t sleep, poppet?’

‘No.’

‘Me neither. Would you like to come in for a cuddle?’

Luke nods, and she holds up the sheet in a giant triangle to make room.

He curls up next to her, and she strokes the back of his neck gently, where downy hair meets pyjama collar. Within minutes his breathing steadies and he sleeps.

She lies there a few moments, then remembers: Molly. If Molly were to wake and discover she’s without Luke, she might well get frightened.

As quietly as she can, so as not to disturb Luke, Karen lifts the sheet on her side of the bed, and tiptoes across the landing. Molly is slumbering soundly in her cot, a tangle of sheet, blanket and cotton nightdress rucked around her knees.

Karen leans over the cot, gently unravels the tangle and lifts Molly clear.

Molly makes a small snuffling noise as Karen carries her through. She lowers Molly onto the bed, and edges herself in carefully from the foot, between the two children, pulling the covers over them all.

Suddenly, ‘Where’s Daddy?’ Molly asks.

‘Daddy isn’t here, love,’ says Karen.

But Molly is barely awake; she snuffles again and swiftly resumes her slumber.

Then, oh-so-quietly, Karen says, ‘Daddy’s gone.’

It is more a reminder to herself than anything.

*     *     *     

Less than two miles away in her attic studio, Lou is asleep on her futon. She is dreaming; a dream so vivid it seems real. She has to catch a train. She is in a dreadful hurry – it is about to leave – but there are crowds and crowds of people getting in her way. Some are facing her, blocking her path, leering, propelling her in the wrong direction, away from the train. Others have their backs turned, and are lugging big suitcases or pushing pushchairs and wheeling bicycles. They are moving too slowly, oblivious to Lou’s needs. She has got to be somewhere important, it is really urgent, and she is not going to make it. Although she doesn’t know where she has got to be or why, she knows it is a matter of life or death.

She wakes with a jerk, pouring sweat, gasping for breath.

She is disoriented, panicked, but then sees the familiar panes of her little window outlined through the blind, and is thankful.

She is here, at home. She is not at the station, after all.

Then memories of her day flood back and as she lies there, tears start to fall silently, in sympathy with a woman she doesn’t know and one she met only briefly, until there is a patch next to her cheek on the pillow, cold and damp and salty.

It is still dark outside, but Karen can hear the faint rumble of trains in the distance, signalling it is early morning. The warmth of Molly and Luke has offered some comfort throughout the night, but nothing can ease the tumult in her mind. She has been over and over events, thoughts tumbling like clothes in a frenetic washing machine.

Simon’s ‘I’ve got a touch of indigestion,’ as they walked swiftly down the hill through the rain to the station.

Her ‘Let’s get a coffee, then,’ as she checked her watch, ‘we’ve got time.’

‘A coffee?’

‘A nice milky latte might help settle it,’ she had argued, but it was because she fancied a drink herself. Then, as they arrived in the concourse, her dictate: ‘I’ll go and get them, you get my ticket.’

She had left him to queue, while she went to the coffee stand. What if she had not done that? What if she had waited with him? Would he have told her that he was not just uncomfortable, but in more serious pain? Then they might have sat down on the circle of benches outside WHSmith, waited a few minutes, maybe even decided to catch the next train. And if they’d been at the station – so much nearer the hospital – when he’d had the heart attack, the outcome could have been very different . . .

Instead she had said, ‘You probably need to eat,’ when he’d joined her just as the barista was sprinkling her cappuccino with chocolate.

‘Not sure I fancy anything,’ he had replied, eyeing the crumbling pastries behind the glass counter. She had been surprised; Simon rarely turned down food. So why had she not pressed him then, asked if he was feeling OK?

But instead she had persisted, ‘I’m having a croissant,’ so he had gone along with her.

What if that one coffee was the cause? It boosts your heart rate, Karen knows. She can picture the boiling water seeping through deep, dark granules of pure espresso into the cardboard container. How sinister, with hindsight. And she was the one who had hankered after caffeine, not him. She knew that without her, his daily ritual was to pick up a paper and avoid the faff of waiting in line. He’d simply buy a cup of tea from the girl with the trolley on board as she passed. So if it was the coffee, then it was her fault, for sure . . .

And what about when Simon collapsed? The crucial seconds before help arrived, when she could have,
should
have tried to revive him. Why didn’t she? It wasn’t like her at all. OK, she didn’t know how to give the kiss of life properly, but she had an idea. Yet she had not even attempted it . . .

Then there was their last conversation, on the train. It had been banal beyond belief; all about her. She had been moaning about her job, complaining that her supervisor had moved her desk without asking her, so she no longer had a seat by the window. She only worked part time at the local council; she didn’t really like it, and had begun to look for something else, scouring the
Argus
. What did the position of her desk matter? But she had been banging on sourly, as if it was important . . .

She never said goodbye; she even hadn’t told him she loved him for ages – she can’t remember the last time she’d said it. In every likelihood it was ‘lots of love Karen’, scrawled on the tag of his Christmas present. Before the arrival of the children she used to tell him she loved him frequently. And it’s not like she loved him any less after Luke was born – if anything she loved him more – so why had she let it go unsaid? It would only have taken a moment to have said it that morning.

If only. If only. If only. Instead, he is gone; Karen is lying here, alone.

The red LED of the clock by the bed declares it is 06.01. Strange that all the clocks in the world continue when her world seems to have stopped. Yet she can see light beginning to creep through the gap in the curtains, gulls are screeching and there is a scuttling downstairs. It’s Toby – though Luke would like it otherwise, he sleeps in the kitchen – and he will want breakfast, and so, soon, will the children. She could lie here forever, but she has to get up. Then she can start to do things. There are arrangements to be made, people to be told, decisions to be made about the house purchase. And first thing this morning there’s to be a post-mortem. The hospital has to do one as a matter of course, to establish the cause of death, officially. She is not sure what good it will do, and the idea of slicing open her beloved Simon . . .

She cannot bear to think of it.

Then, of course, there is a funeral to be organized.

This last thought does it: before she has time to change her mind, Karen eases herself out from the covers and lifts her legs up and over Molly, who, curled into a tight little ball, is not taking up much space.

Once upright, Karen automatically reaches for her dressing gown on the back of the door. But to get to it, she has to unhook Simon’s. It is navy, thick towelling, shin-length, and, even though it is several years old, still luxurious; she can’t resist pulling it to her, inhaling . . .

Sure enough, it is suffused with his scent: a combination of deodorant and aftershave – it’s what he pulled on most mornings as he stepped out of the shower – and Simon’s own, natural smell. Unique as he is; was. One of her favourite smells in the whole world. Still she cannot believe he will never give off that scent again.

*

An October morning, a hotel in Manchester. Grey clouds billow across the sky outside the bedroom window, doubtless there is a chill in the air, but no matter, Karen and Simon are inside, snug.

‘Oh, look,’ says Karen, opening the wardrobe. ‘Dressing gowns. How posh.’

‘What, darling?’ Simon comes from the bathroom; he has a white towel wrapped round his waist, another in his hands; he is drying his hair. He stops and says, ‘Sorry, I missed that.’

‘Look,’ she repeats, unhooking one of the gowns and holding it out. They are matching, navy, enormous, stitched on the breast with a curly ‘M’ to represent the name of the hotel.

He unhooks the towel from his waist and flings it on the bed. ‘Perfect.’ Then he takes the dressing gown from Karen and puts it on, tying the belt round his middle.

‘It suits you,’ observes Karen. It does. The navy brings out the blue of his eyes, but it is more than that: it fits him so well. He is big and the luxury of the fabric and the generosity of the cut does him justice in a way many clothes don’t, emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders and creating a pleasing ‘V’ to his waist.

‘Mm,’ she smiles. ‘It makes you look really manly.’

‘Don’t sound so surprised,’ he laughs. ‘I
am
manly.’

‘Of course you are,’ she laughs, too.

Karen is enjoying herself. It is fun being in this hotel, all the more so because it is on expenses. Anna recommended it, and she is always spot on when it comes to matters of taste. The decor is elegant yet not stuffy, modern yet far from minimal. Whilst it’s not overly expensive (or Simon’s work would complain), the whole place has a sense of opulence, makes her feel spoiled. The night before, the bed was blissfully comfortable, the evening meal a series of sumptuous and spectacular delights – they even indulged in candlelit cocktails beforehand at the panelled oak bar. There are pleasing details too – the bath foam is not the usual hotel fare reminiscent of old ladies, but some heady concoction that allows Karen to imagine, just for this brief time, that she’s someone incredibly glamorous and successful. And while Simon has come up for a conference, she has just come along for the ride, and is free to spend that day as she wants. Never mind sightseeing, she plans to go shopping – Anna has told her Manchester is great for that.