The Great Escape (27 page)

‘Why?’ she asks gently.

‘Because Hannah doesn’t want to marry me,’ he says.

FORTY

Johnny Lynch is sitting on his small sage-green sofa with his laptop open beside him. Lou has been easy to find and, not for the first time in his life, Johnny gives a brief, silent thanks to Saint Google. He studies her home page:

Lou Costello Jewellery Designs

• Home
  
• Gallery
  
• Contact artist
  

Contact artist.
Of course he can’t. After all this time, having abruptly cut ties, he can’t just lurch back into her life. Anyway, if that really had been her, Sadie and Hannah in that pretentious-looking basement bar – which is highly unlikely, Johnny decides – then Lou will hardly be picking up her emails right now.

Instead, he browses Lou’s gallery pictures as he sips a beer. Her jewellery is quite breathtaking, and Johnny isn’t even a jewellery person. Each piece is incredibly delicate, like a precious thing found on a beach. Bracelets resemble shards of shell and coral, and a pearl-encrusted brooch looks as if it might have been plucked from the seabed. For one mad moment, Johnny considers posing as a buyer and emailing to ask for more details. As Lou hasn’t put any prices on the site, it would be perfectly feasible. But what would be the point? It would just be weird, and Johnny has lived alone for long enough – nine years now – to be aware that weirdness can creep up on you without you noticing. If he hadn’t had Cal to think about, Johnny is pretty confident that he’d have descended into Weirdness Central by now.

He sits back, sipping his beer, thinking about Cal nagging him to go in and speak to those girls. How spineless is he, not even having the courage to do that? What kind of message is he sending his son? Cal wouldn’t have held back. He’s the kind of boy who’ll march into any situation – first evening at scouts, a birthday party where he barely knows a soul – and within minutes everyone knows what Cal Lynch is all about.

Johnny clicks on ‘Contact’.

Lou Costello, Flat 2, 67 Winston Street, York YO16 7AZ.

Phone: 01906 334774

Email: [email protected]

It’s all there, laid out on his screen. A landline, not a mobile. Well, that’s better than nothing. He could phone right now even though, at 12.37 am, it’s far too late to be calling anyone. If she doesn’t answer, there might at least be a mobile number on the answerphone message. And if she
does
pick up, he’ll know it wasn’t her in that bar.

Picking up the handset, Johnny starts to tap out her number. At the penultimate digit, he pauses, his finger hovering over the button. A few millimetres, one tiny movement of his index finger – that’s how close he is from speaking to Lou Costello again. He jabs at the 4, catching his breath as it rings and the answerphone kicks in.
Hi, can’t get to the phone right now, please leave a message after the beep. Thanks. Bye!

Brisk, perky, just like the Lou he remembers. At the sound of her voice, Johnny is left momentarily speechless. He opens his mouth. There are a few seconds of crackling, then the beep. ‘Er, hi Lou, it’s me! Erm … Johnny. D’you remember? From upstairs at your old Glasgow flat? God, I know it’s been years. Look, I know it’s horribly late and you’ll probably think this is completely bizarre …’ He’s sweating now, and nearly loses his grip on the handset. ‘Um, I was out tonight and I noticed these people in this little cocktail place in Bath Street, can’t remember what it’s called, and I thought I saw you! Sitting at a table by the window with two girls who looked just like Hannah and Sadie, and you were there too, at least someone who looked exactly like you, with your boyfriend …’ He stops abruptly. This is coming out all wrong. Fuck, he sounds completely berserk, like some mad stalker, prone to peering in through windows at bunches of girls having a perfectly nice Friday night out. ‘Er … but of course, if you are in Glasgow, you won’t be picking up this message,’ he adds with a strained chuckle. ‘So anyway, bye!’

He slams the handset down and sinks back into the sofa. ‘Bloody idiot,’ he mutters out loud. Leaning forward then, and pressing his knuckles so far into his temples that it actually hurts, Johnny decides that the only thing for it is to take himself to bed. He turns off his laptop and tips the rest of his beer down his throat. Then he marches through to his small, orderly bedroom to pull off his clothes, crawl under the duvet and try to convince himself that his deranged call to Lou Costello had never happened.

FORTY-ONE

Barney has cocked up big time. His sons are merrily kicking and swiping at the dangling objects on their gigantic activity arch as if it’s the middle of the day and not an ungodly 1.15 am. He’s tried everything to coax them cotwards: singing, rocking, bathing them and feeding them copious amounts of milk. He’s even changed them into fresh sleepsuits in case his initial choice had been uncomfortable or regarded as a style faux pas.

‘Are they normally as lively as this?’ asks Pete, regarding the scene with undisguised relief that, for him, this is a one-off and not a regular occurrence.

‘No,’ Barney says, trying to keep the agitation out of his voice. ‘Not when Sadie’s here. They’re usually in bed by about nine.’ He stops himself from adding,
That’s because Sadie has strict schedules to be adhered to, and this is what happens when you flaunt the rules.
There’s no ‘winging it’ with babies, he realises now. When Sadie was pregnant, he’d imagined the two of them continuing to travel, as they had pre-children: trekking through Peru or India, each transporting a baby on their backs. Now, it feels like an almighty feat to strap them into the car and drive them to his parents’ place in Hertfordshire. What had he been thinking, allowing his children that long, luxurious evening nap in the beer garden – so close to bath and bedtime – while he and Pete chatted up two young girls?

‘Wonder what their photo shoot will be about tomorrow?’ Pete muses, installed in the comfiest armchair in the room and sipping from his bottle of beer.

Barney glances at him. With Milo on his lap and the
My Little Farm
picture book open in front of him, he tries to convince himself that it’s
fine
to meet up with the girls tomorrow.

‘God knows,’ he murmurs, pointing to one of the pictures. ‘Horse,’ he adds, ‘look, Milo, horse.
Neeeeiiigh
… just don’t embarrass me, all right? I live here, remember, and Magda works in the café in the park.’

‘What would I do to embarrass you?’ Pete exclaims, observing Dylan as he crawls across the rug towards his father.

‘Cow. Moo. … Oh, I dunno. Flirt madly, try to get off with a twenty-year-old.’

‘Twenty’s all right!’ Pete protests. ‘Twenty’s hardly, y’know, jail-bait.’

Rolling his eyes, Barney turns the page, reaching down to lift Dylan up onto his other knee while keeping Milo firmly clasped on his lap. ‘Look,’ he says brightly with both sons now staring intently at the book. ‘That’s the farmer’s wife.
Lady
…’

Dylan stiffens. ‘Mama …’

‘Yes, Mama …’

‘Mama,’ he cries, more forcefully now, causing his brother to flinch.

‘Well, no, it’s not really Mama,’ Barney explains. ‘It’s just a lady – the farmer’s wife – and she doesn’t look
anything
like Mama, does she, with that funny bun hairdo …’

‘Mama!’ Dylan cries, swiping at the page.

‘I think she quite liked me,’ Pete muses.

‘Who?’

‘Amy …’ He grins smugly.

‘But I thought you were seeing …’

‘MAMA!’ Dylan cries as Barney quickly turns the page.

‘No,’ he murmurs. ‘Mama gone …’

‘
Waaaagh!
’ Dylan yells.

‘I didn’t mean Mama gone, not real Mummy, she’s only in Glasgow, I mean the book one, we’ve turned the page now …’ He looks down. While Milo is whimpering, Dylan’s mouth has opened in a great circle of misery as he thrashes around on Barney’s lap.

‘It was only a casual thing with Christina,’ Pete explains, seemingly immune to Dylan’s anguished cries. ‘And Amy’s cute, don’t you think … God, are babies always like this?’

‘Yeah, no, they’re just unsettled … look, could you go to the fridge, top shelf, there are two bottles in there …’

Pete holds up his bottle of Becks. ‘It’s okay, I’ve only just started this …’

‘Not beer!
Milk.
There are two bottles, defrosted, that I’ve kept in reserve. There’s only a little bit in each but it’ll probably be enough to send them off …’

‘Er, right.’ Pete stands up and places his beer at his feet, but doesn’t seem to be going anywhere.

Barney looks at him. ‘The fridge, Pete. In the kitchen.’

‘Oh, yeah.’ Pulling his lips tight, Pete gives the wailing babies a worried glance as he hurries out of the room.

Barney breathes deeply as he hears the fridge door open. ‘Right,’ Pete mutters, as if confronted by a virtually insurmountable task. ‘You mean this bottle on the shelf in the door, right?’

‘Yep. Bring two, though. They haven’t got their heads around the concept of sharing yet.’ Despite the now stereo crying, Barney is trying to sound light and jovial for his old mate who’s schlepped all the way out to deepest Cambridgeshire to see him.

Pete reappears in the living room and thrusts the two bottles at Pete. At the sight of them, Milo and Dylan wail and kick furiously. ‘No, I should have said they don’t like it fridge-cold …’

‘Er … what should I do then?’ Glancing down at the distraught babies, Pete takes several steps back. ‘Heat it up in the microwave?’

‘No!’ Barney exclaims, louder than he intended.

Pete frowns. ‘Why not?’

‘Because it could burn their mouths …’

‘God, Barney,’ Pete guffaws. ‘I might not have kids, but I
am
capable of microwaving a couple of bottles without heating them to, like, two hundred degrees …’

‘Yeah, I know,’ Barney snaps, ‘but the books say microwaves heat liquids unevenly and there can be dangerous hot spots.’

‘Right,’ Pete says slowly.

‘It’s just …’ Barney shrugs, deciding not to even attempt to talk his friend through the workings of the bottle warmer, ‘it’s safer to run them under the hot tap, if that’s okay.’

Pete smiles condescendingly. ‘Sure. I think I can manage that.’

Barney waits, jigging his children rhymically on his knee. It takes Pete what feels like forever to warm the two stubby bottles and thrust them at Barney.

‘You couldn’t feed Milo for me, could you?’ Barney asks.

Pete stands before him, gripping the bottles like a couple of grenades. ‘Well, um … I’ve never actually held a baby before. And babies don’t like me. They think I’m a terrifying, horrible man. Look …’ He focuses hard on Milo and Dylan who are no longer crying but gazing expectantly at Pete.

Barney laughs. ‘Looks like you’ve bonded already. Here you go …’

‘Well. … All right then. If you’re sure …’ Pete hands him one of the bottles, then cautiously lifts Milo from his lap.

‘Of course I’m sure.’

‘I just don’t know how to …
do
this.’

‘Just sit down with him and pop the teat in. Nothing to it …’

‘Okay …’ Pete treads gingerly towards the armchair, carrying Milo as if he were made from the finest glass, and lowers himself into it. ‘Just pop it in?’ he repeats.

‘Uh-huh.’

‘What are you sniggering at?’

‘Just this. You and me, feeding a baby each. Who’d have thought …’

‘Yeah.’ Pete chuckles as Milo starts to suck vigorously on the teat. ‘Actually, this isn’t so bad. I don’t see what people make so much fuss about. All those books, the parenting classes – God, it’s hardly rocket science is it?’

‘Well, there’s a bit more to it than this,’ Barney says with a grin.

‘Is there?’ Pete pauses. ‘Yeah, well, I suppose there’s the nappies and being woken up at night occasionally, and maybe not being able to go out as much as you used to …’

No
, Barney wants to tell his friend.
Of course there’s all that, but that’s fine, that’s all perfectly manageable compared to what it does to you as a person, and the woman you love, the sexy party girl with feline eyes who suddenly, without warning, decides that you’re a crappy excuse for a father. Not that she says so exactly, at least not with words. But with a look …
Barney is chewing this over when Pete cries, ‘Oh, fuck!’ and Milo emits a startled peep as the top plops off the bottle and milk sloshes all over Pete’s left trouser leg.

‘Oh my God,’ Barney exclaims.

‘What happened?’ Pete cries.

‘You mustn’t have put the top on properly!’

‘I didn’t
touch
the top. I just took it out of the fridge like you said …’

‘You can’t have, you must have fiddled about with it …’

‘Why the hell would I fiddle—’

‘Well, it’s never fallen off like that before …’

‘Can’t you just make up some more?’ Pete asks.

‘No! It’s not actually physically possible …’ Pete peers at him uncomprehendingly. ‘That was one of the reserve bottles,’ Barney snaps over Milo’s cries, ‘the stuff I’d kept back in case of emergencies.’

‘What stuff?’

‘Breast milk.’

‘What, this is breast milk?’ Pete glares down at his wet trouser leg. ‘Like …
out of Sadie
?’

‘Of course it’s out of Sadie! Who else would it be out of?’

‘Well, I …’ He studies the milk stain with revulsion. ‘It just feels a bit weird, that’s all …’

‘It
is
natural, you know …’

‘I know, I’m sorry,’ Pete mutters, standing up and cradling Milo to his chest before handing him back to his father.

‘It’s okay,’ Barney mutters as Pete picks up a discarded bib from the coffee table and tries to dab himself dry. ‘Just don’t mention this to Sadie, all right?’

Pete frowns, and Barney notices that a large, damp patch has appeared on the armchair. ‘Why not?’

He breathes slowly, wondering now if his oldest friend will ever come out to visit him again. ‘Because,’ he says quietly, ‘it took her about four hours to express that milk.’