Singled Out (19 page)

But she desperately needed to put him off. She sent an overnight telemessage, apologizing for the change of arrangement. But even as she did so she knew it would be of little use if he wasn't at home that night.

On the Saturday morning she had a call from Kent. ‘Michael hasn't tried to make contact with you, has he?'

‘No. Why should he?'

‘Just he may be in Bristol, that's all. We had reports of a disturbance in a Victoria Street pub last night caused by someone who fitted Michael's description. He was gone before the police got there, but … thought I'd check.'

‘Well, thanks, Kent, but no, I haven't heard anything from him.'

‘You all right? You sound a bit tense.'

‘Well, I …' For a moment, Laura contemplated unburdening herself to her brother. It was tempting, the thought of sharing her anxieties about Tom. But no, that sort of talk was out of bounds in her relationship with Kent. Besides, it would be tantamount to an admission that he was right in their continuing debate about the rival claims of nature and nurture.

So she contented herself with saying, ‘I think I'm just tired. End of a heavy week. I'm finding running the studios on my own pretty tough.'

‘Oh?'

Her words had sounded too much like an admission of weakness, so she added, ‘Though everything is actually going very well. Just have to put in a lot of hours when you're starting a new business.'

‘Sure.' He was silent for a moment, then asked, ‘But you'll be able to relax over the weekend? Haven't got too much on, have you?'

Laura could feel he was fishing for information, and saw no reason why she shouldn't give it to him. ‘I was meant to be meeting up with Philip today – you know, the one I told you about …'

‘From New Zealand?'

‘Right. But I'm going to put it off.'

‘Decided it's a bad idea to rake over old embers?'

‘No, I'm just too exhausted this weekend.'

‘So you will see him sometime?'

‘I expect so.'

‘Hm. I must go. I've got to be on duty. But, for heaven's sake, if you hear anything from Michael, let me know immediately. Just ring the station and they'll find me. You've got the number, haven't you?'

When she had finished her conversation with Kent, Laura tried Philip's number again. Still no reply. That could mean anything. It could mean he had got her telemessage and gone out to do his weekly shopping or something. It could mean he hadn't been home overnight and was still blithely preparing for his trip to Bristol. Damn it.

She tried his number again through the morning, till long after the last time he could possibly still be there if he was going to catch the prearranged train. At last, reluctantly, Laura reconciled herself to the fact that she'd have to go to Temple Meads station on the off-chance that he arrived. She had no hopes for their relationship – indeed, with her current preoccupation it seemed an intrusive irrelevance – but she wouldn't be so cruel as apparently to stand up someone who had once meant so much to her.

He was meant to be on the 10.15 train from Paddington, due in at 11.58. It was on time.

Laura stood in the ticket hall with her back to the Information Centre and watched the passengers off the London train come through from the concourse. She recognized Philip immediately from the way he carried his briefcase. It was a worn leather one, as ever overfilled with books and papers so that it would not close, and he held it gingerly in the crook of his right arm rather as a shepherd might a sick lamb.

Except for that distinctive mannerism, though, he had changed almost beyond recognition. For a start, his shape was different. In the late sixties he had been of slight build, with the kind of wiriness one can never imagine turning to fat. Time had achieved the trick, however. His features had spread, and he was now a rounded, definitely chubby, almost portly, figure.

The hair had gone on top and tufted thickly round his ears, giving him something of a mad professor look. He wore thick-rimmed glasses, through which he peered with a familiar fussy uncertainty. A shapeless overcoat was open over a shapeless sports jacket, and beige corduroy trousers concertinaed down to scuffed brown brogues. If a casting director had presented him for the role of an absent-minded academic, most television producers would have rejected him as too stereotypical.

When she saw him, Laura was caught by a spasm of shyness. Twenty-five years, she felt sure, had wrought at least as many changes in her. Her dark hair, though controlled by skilful hairdressing, was streaked with grey. The firm outline of her chin, she knew, had slackened. The hips were broader, partly as a legacy of Tom's birth, and it was no longer possible to say with pinpoint accuracy where her waist was.

Laura, who, though she had never loved her body, had always known that the world in general considered her attractive, was assailed by sudden self-doubt. The confrontation with Tom had shattered her confidence about everything. What was she doing here? What possible point could there be in two middle-aged people of declining charms meeting after all these years? For a moment she considered doing a bunk. But it was too late. Philip's vague eye had landed on her and he was moving tentatively in her direction.

‘Is it Laura …?' he hazarded. Clearly for him the shock of her appearance was as great as his for her.

She had forgotten how strong his accent was. Somehow in the many reruns of her fantasies over the years Laura had ironed out his cramped New Zealand vowels. ‘Yes. Yes, it is,' she said.

They faced each other, swaying slightly, uncertain what should happen next. Then Laura darted her face forward and planted a small peck on his cheek. The skin was bristly, a little cold, but otherwise unremarkable. The contact gave no carnal
frisson
to Laura. Nor, from the blankness of his expression, did it to Philip.

‘Your journey was OK?' she asked fatuously. There was no point in going into all the attempts she had made to head him off. He was in Bristol. They would have to make the best of it.

‘Yes. Yes, fine. I'm quite impressed by these Intercity trains – compared to the ones I travelled on when I was last over here.'

‘Oh yes. Yes, they're not bad.'

‘You can't imagine how many times I've visualized this moment,' he announced suddenly.

‘Me too,' said Laura.

But there was no magic in their words. They still stood awkwardly facing each other. What they had said seemed simply to emphasize the gulf between them, the great void that divided their long-simmered fantasies from commonplace reality. God, this was going to be embarrassing.

‘I've booked in a Thai restaurant that I go to quite a lot. If that's all right with you …? You do like Thai food, don't you, Philip?' This question seemed once again to accentuate their alienation, emphasize how little they knew of each other's lives.

‘Sounds good to me,' he said with too much heartiness.

They were still facing each other, rooted to the spot. But it wasn't the immobility of chemical magnetism; it was the torpor of social unease. With an effort Laura managed to take a step sideways. ‘Well, um, let's go and get a cab then, shall we?'

The lunch was agony. Small talk had never been smaller. Jerky, like a car with a flat battery, the conversation had continually to be jump-started by prompting questions.

They found out all about each other's work. They discussed the differences new technology was bringing to the making of television programmes. Philip summed up the current state of the industry in New Zealand. Laura, in a manner that bored her even as she told it, described the insane Thatcherite lottery by which the ITV franchises had been reallocated and the destructive effects the changes had had on British television. She even found herself particularizing the details of the BBC's budget deficit. It was desperate stuff.

Neither said anything truly personal, though Philip provided a few weight and growth statistics for his granddaughter Katie. Laura didn't even mention she had a son.

Neither wanted sweets, but they ordered coffee. When it arrived, Laura dared to sneak a look at her watch. God, it was only twenty to two. It felt like the lunch had lasted four hours.

‘I don't know if you'd planned which train to go back on, Philip …' It was brutal, but something had to be done to end the awkwardness.

‘No, I, er …'

‘They're quarter past the hour. Saturdays the same as weekdays.'

‘Oh.' Philip looked at his watch. ‘I suppose if I put my skates on, I could make the 2.15.'

‘I'll ring for a cab.' Laura knew she was being ungracious as she hurried away from the table, but something had to be done.

She asked the waiter for the bill on her way back from the telephone, and insisted on paying it. ‘After all, you've come all this way, Philip. Least I can do is make it my treat.'

‘Well, thank you then. And if we meet up in London, I'll return the compliment.'

Laura nodded and smiled agreement, though nothing would induce her ever to go through another lunch like that one.

Back at Temple Meads they both got out of the taxi. ‘I've a bit of shopping to do,' Laura lied. ‘I'll walk.'

‘Fine,' said Philip.

Back in the ticket hall, they looked at each other and grinned meaningless grins. Suddenly Laura had the familiar prickling feeling that she was being watched. She turned her head sharply, but saw no one she recognized.

‘Problem?' asked Philip.

‘No. Just thought I saw someone I knew.' She looked up at the big clock. Eleven minutes past two. ‘Perfect timing. You'll just make it.'

‘Yes,' said Philip. He half-turned, as if to step away. For a moment he was still, his body showing the tug of indecision. He faced her again. ‘I'm not going.'

‘What?'

‘Laura, I am not going like this. We haven't
met
. We haven't
talked
to each other.'

‘What else have we been doing for the last two hours then?' she asked lightly, trying to divert the seriousness of his words.

‘No, we need to
talk
properly.'

‘I don't honestly think … I mean, I've got to … My son'll be back soon and –'

Philip's face was wide with amazement. ‘You have a son?'

‘Yes.'

‘Are you married?'

‘No.'

‘Living with his father?'

‘No.'

‘You must tell me about him. You must tell me all about him. You must tell me everything, Laura.'

He tucked her arm in his and led her out of the station. Laura's first instinct was to resist, but she didn't. They walked past the taxi rank, down the cobbled station forecourt and through the traffic into the city. All afternoon they walked round Bristol, along crowded shopping streets, down by the harbour, through parks and squares. They didn't really notice where they walked.

But all afternoon they talked. Or, to be more accurate, Laura talked. For the first time since Tom's conception she talked to someone about her decision to be a single parent. She didn't give any details of how she had met the father or who he was, but she talked about the pregnancy, moving out of London, Tom's upbringing. She said nothing of her fears for his genetic inheritance, she did not mention Emily's accusations against him, but she did repeat the denunciation her son had made of the way she had brought him up.

And all the time Philip listened. He made the occasional comment, gave the occasional prompt, but most of the time he just listened. And as she talked, Laura felt the long-accumulated tension draining out of her. After her long narrative, she was weak with relief and almost stumbled against Philip.

‘You all right?'

‘Yes, I'm just … I don't know. Sorry. I don't usually witter on like this.'

‘You witter away to your heart's content, Laura. I'm happy to listen to anything you have to say.'

She grinned. ‘Be your turn next, I promise. Equal opportunities. Equal wittering rights for both sexes.'

She was suddenly aware that it was getting dark. Her watch showed the time to be nearly five. ‘Good God,' she murmured.

‘You look tired.' Philip indicated a coffee shop the other side of the road. ‘Fancy a sit-down and a cup of something?'

‘Yes,' said Laura. Philip started across the road. ‘No, come back to the house.'

They approached from Charlotte Street. As they turned the corner, Brandon Hill Park lay shadowy and mysterious ahead. The familiar outline of the Cabot Tower was lost in the darkness. Laura unlocked the front door and ushered Philip in. She paused for a moment in the hall, testing the atmosphere. No, Tom wasn't there. They were alone in the house. She drew the living room curtains and turned back to face him. Philip still nursed his stuffed briefcase under his arm. He looked more than ever like a bemused professor.

They said nothing, but moved together by mutual instinct. Philip's briefcase dropped unnoticed to the floor as they embraced. Their lips found each other, and warmth flowed between their bodies.

The doorbell rang. Laura moved.

‘Don't go. Don't answer it.'

‘I must.' Even through her emotion, she had not forgotten Tom. This might be him, or at least news of him.

She opened the front door. On the step, a small mauvish bruise fading around her left eye, stood Emily.

‘I thought it would be better if we talked face to face, Laura, rather than you hearing this through a third person.'

Emily sat on the edge of the sofa. Her sweatshirt sleeves were as usual pulled down to cover her hands, but she was not unrelaxed. She had simply taken up her customary pontificating posture. Laura sat opposite her, Philip was sprawled resentfully to one side in an armchair.

‘Hearing what, Emily?'

The girl looked cautiously across to Philip. ‘Perhaps this is something that we ought to talk about “
à deux
” …?' She enclosed the phrase in her infuriating crook-fingered quotation marks.