The Great Escape (28 page)

FORTY-TWO

There are three answerphone messages when Spike returns home. One is from his mother who, for some unfathomable reason, thinks he’s keen to hear about Annie Bartholomew, an old neighbour of theirs – correction, not Annie Bartholomew, a joyless crone who’d once knifed a football Spike had kicked into her garden. No, the hot news concerns Annie’s daughter who’d been happily married and then gone off – just like that – with her daughter’s best friend’s father.
Nice of Annie to visit … we do like visitors, you know. Breaks up the long days. But Annie’s daughter, you remember the blonde one, big legs, she’s gone off the rails … don’t know what she sees in him, always thought he was a layabout …

Spike tunes out, removing his footwear and rubbing the sore bit where his bare left heel has been rubbing violently against the back of his shoe. ‘And on top of all that,’ his mother adds, ‘Annie’s had bother with that catheter.’ Spike shudders, making a mental note to never turn into the kind of person who relishes talking about other people’s malfunctioning internal organs, even if he lives to be a hundred and five, which is unlikely, considering his lifestyle. ‘We haven’t heard from you for a long time, Donald,’ his mum goes on. ‘Why don’t you and Lou come up sometime? We’d love to see you –
both
of you – and could you please thank her for that brooch she sent for my birthday? It’s very pretty, bit modern for me but I’ll try wearing it on my camel coat …’

Spike flicks on the gas fire and sits cross-legged on the living room carpet, noticing a smattering of crumbs embedded in it. Why does his mother still insist on calling him Donald? Spike’s real name is Donald Wren. Not just a bird, but the smallest, least significant native bird in Britain – although Spike often consoles himself with the fact that it could have been worse, it could have been Puffin or Tit. Even so, Spike grew up always knowing he’d be a musician, and that Donald Wren was no name for a star. He’s been Spike since he was thirteen years old. As his mother’s voice warbles on, he gets up and flops onto the sofa. The cushions are squashed flat from his earlier lounging, but he can’t be bothered to plump them up. That’s the kind of thing Lou does – plump cushions, wipe the kitchen worktops, place packets of mangetout in the fridge. If she
is
up to something with that Felix and it splits them up – and by now, Spike’s pretty sure she isn’t – he wonders if living a single man’s life, with no cushion plumping going on, would not be that bad after all. ‘Anyway, bye, Donald,’ his mother trills. There’s a pause, as if she expects the machine to say ‘bye’ in response. ‘Er … I’ll just go then,’ she mumbles, unable to disguise the hurt in her voice.

‘Hey, Lou!’ chirps Steph, Lou’s work friend, as the second message clicks in. ‘I know you’re away, hope you’re having an amazing time, just wanted to let you know I’m having a girls’ night round at my place next Thursday, about eight-ish … make sure you keep it free, okay? There’s quite a few coming over …’ Spike frowns at the phone, wondering why thirty-something women insist on referring to themselves as ‘girls’, and why they enjoy clustering together in girly groups whenever they get the chance. It’s not that Spike doesn’t
like
Lou’s friends. In fact, he always enjoyed being around Sadie and Hannah in Garnet Street, especially when they were drifting around all damp-haired and towel-clad after a bath. Yet he always suspected that, no matter how friendly they were with him, he was somehow hovering around the edge of the group, and never wholeheartedly welcomed in. Perhaps they were in awe of him. That was probably it, he concedes as Steph finishes her message with an irksome ‘bye, sweetie!’

The third message starts to play.
Er, hi Lou, it’s me! Erm … Johnny …
At the sound of his voice, Spike springs up as if jabbed with a cattle prod.
D’you remember? From upstairs at your old Glasgow flat? God, I know it’s been years. Look, er, I know it’s horribly late and you’ll probably think this is completely bizarre …’
Jesus Christ. Spike thought that hanger-on had disappeared from Lou’s life years ago.
This might sound mad but 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 looked down to the basement 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 …’
Her boyfriend? What the hell is she up to?
Er … but of course, if you are in Glasgow you won’t be picking up this message … so anyway, bye!

Spike blinks at the phone, all traces of alcohol instantly evaporating from his bloodstream. He needs to hear that message again to make sure he hasn’t gone stark raving crazy. It’s a clunky old answerphone, and in order to play it again, he’ll first have to listen to his mother rambling on about catheters, and Steph’s girly invitation.

All through the messages, he sits, tension building in his shoulders and brain until it’s Johnny Lynch again, who just
happened
to spot Lou and the others sitting in a bar by the window – was he stalking them or what? And who the hell was this ‘boyfriend’ – Felix, the ponce with the truffles? Lou must have been kissing him or wrapped up in his arms at the very least. Spike’s fury morphs into acute anguish as he stands up, swipes ineffectually at the cream plastic phone on the coffee table and marches through to the kitchen –
their
kitchen, where Lou has cooked him billions of meals, with a slight overreliance on the wok, maybe, while he chatted about the details of his day. The first tear startles him, oozing without warning as he lowers himself onto a chair. He’s crying over Lou and this
boyfriend
in Glasgow, and he’s crying over sleeping with Astrid, which he should never have done, and the guitar his dad bought him, having saved up the money for months because Spike – sorry,
Donald
– had begged for one.

He virtually gave away the guitar to Rick at Sound Shack – let a precious thing go, just like that. And now he’s lost Lou too. It was karma, he thinks bleakly. If he hadn’t sold the guitar, simply so he could spend all weekend having it away with Astrid Stone, then his life wouldn’t be one great bloody car crash right now.

Blundering back into the living room, Spike looms over the phone, hands bunched into tight fists. Then he picks up the receiver and dials Charlie.

‘Hey,’ Charlie says, ‘you all right, Spike? Get home okay?’

‘Er, yeah. Yeah. Um … just wondered, d’you have that guy’s number, what’s-his-name …’

‘Huh?’

‘The roadie. The one in the Spanish bar. Henry, was it?’

‘It’s Harry … why?’

Spike purses his lips and exhales, making a noise like air hissing out of a punctured tyre. ‘Um … you know, I was thinking I might go to Glasgow with them in the morning, just for a laugh.’ He chuckles unconvincingly, fixing his gaze firmly on the brandy bottle on the coffee table, as if it might somehow anchor his thoughts.

‘You mean you’re going to check up on Lou?’ Charlie exclaims. ‘Just because she put some pissed bloke on the phone to you?’

‘No!’ Spike retorts. ‘Of course not …’

‘So why d’you want to go, then?’

‘I just …’ He takes a deep breath. ‘Just thought I could come along for the ride,’ he adds feebly, ‘so if you could give me that number …’ That’s better. He needs to make it sound like a jaunt, rather than a desperate attempt to salvage his relationship.

Charlie makes a snorting noise. ‘No need, Spike. He’s right here. We came back to their hotel bar for a little nightcap. I’ll put him on …’

‘Hey, Spike,’ Harry says, sounding even younger on the phone than he did in Bar Circa.

‘Er, hi. I was just wondering, are you, er … still heading up to Glasgow tomorrow?’

‘Yeah, ’course we are …’

‘You know what?’ Spike is pacing his living room now, hoping it’ll make him feel calmer. ‘I think I’ll come, if you’re still all right about that. Just for the ride …’

‘Right, and your girlfriend just happens to be there on that hen weekend,’ Harry reminds him with a snigger.

‘Yes. Yeah, she is! So it’ll be, er … good. To see her, I mean …’ There’s an awkward pause, and Spike feels himself breaking into a sweat.

Okay,’ Harry says warily. ‘Well, we’ve got room like I said. Can you come over before ten? Know where we’re staying?’

‘Yeah, I know it …’

‘See you bright and early then.’ There’s a burst of laughter in the background, but Spike doesn’t care. He’s going to Glasgow tomorrow – in an ambulance – to reclaim the woman he loves.

FORTY-THREE

Sadie wakes up just before seven, taking in the unfamiliar layout of the room. Pale light filters in through a sash window, and there’s already the hum of city traffic in the street below. Sadie remembers her bespoke cocktail, although she can no longer recall what was in it – something vaguely toffee-ish – and she remembers dancing like she hasn’t danced in years. But after that, it’s all just a blur of somehow making their way back to the hotel and something about the lift being broken … then … nothing.

Despite her hangover, Sadie is shimmeringly awake. The babies have usually been up for at least an hour by now, and even with a fuzzy head, she is no longer capable of sleeping in. She glances to the left: no Barney, of course. Instead, in the single bed next to hers, Lou is sleeping, her hair fanned out on the pillow, one bare foot poking out from under a crumpled white sheet. Sadie can’t see Hannah but she’s probably still asleep, bunched up under the fleecy blanket.

Sadie tries to will herself back to sleep, thinking she should make the most of this opportunity. Isn’t a lie-in the thing she’s craved most during the past few months?

Not today, though. It’s no use. Every time she closes her eyes, they ping straight open again. This is it then, she reflects, studying a ragged crack in the ceiling. She’s spent a whole night away from her children – in
another country
– and it would appear that everything is okay. The sky hasn’t fallen in, the police haven’t called her; there haven’t even been any panicky phone calls from Barney. Just a brief chat late yesterday afternoon, when he’d been waiting for Pete to arrive. Sadie’s glad that Barney has had adult company. She knows how empty and hollow adult-free days can be and wants his first experience of being in sole charge of the children to be as pleasant as possible.

With a small pang, Sadie wonders what they’re doing now. They’ll be up, of course – although perhaps not Pete. Barney will probably be feeding the boys, or warming bottles – she hopes he won’t put the boys in their bouncy seats and prop up their bottles on rolled-up blankets, as she once caught him doing. That’s not recommended in the baby books.

Sadie sits up in bed, now a little anxious at the thought of her precious babies feeding from bottles not being held by actual human hands. No, she’s just being silly. Something else is niggling her, something about last night in Felix’s bar. A wave of anxiety washes over her. Surely she didn’t do anything truly awful. No, Hannah and Lou would have stopped her.

The sloshing of water in the bathroom gives Sadie a start. She realises now that the furthest bed doesn’t contain a sleeping Hannah after all. Slipping out from under her sheets, she catches her reflection in the mirrored wardrobe door. Her eye shadow is still on, all smudged and smeary, and a trace of wonky red liner outlines her lips. Sadie hasn’t slept with make-up on since her student days. Her mobile rings, and she grabs it from the bedside table. ‘Barney! Hi, how’s things?’ She’s thankful he can’t see the state she’s in.

‘Fine, all good … so how’s it going with you? Have a fun time last night?’

I have absolutely no bloody idea
… ‘Yeah, it was great, just a few bars, you know … bit of dancing and stuff …’ She clamps her mouth shut, conscious of a vein throbbing in her forehead.

‘You sound a bit rough,’ he says teasingly.

‘No, I’m fine, just woken up. How about you? Did Pete stay over?’

‘Yeah, we just had a few beers, y’know …’

Sadie bites her lip. In the bathroom, Hannah is humming softly. ‘It sounds really quiet now. Are the boys okay?’

‘Yep, just had breakfast …’

‘Did they settle last night?’

‘They were fine, stop worrying …’

Sadie frowns. She hadn’t said she was worried, yet her voice must be laced with anxiety. A fragment of memory sneaks into her mind. Of her, dancing – not with Sadie or Hannah, but someone else … ‘I’m not worried,’ she says firmly. ‘I know you’re totally capable, and if I’m sounding weird it’s probably just being away from the babies and feeling—’

‘You don’t sound weird,’ Barney corrects her. ‘Just a bit tired, that’s all. I shouldn’t have rung you so early, but …’ He pauses. ‘I miss you, Sadie.’

‘I miss you too,’ she murmurs. ‘So what are you up to today? Is Pete staying for a while?’

‘Yeah, I think so – just see what happens I guess …’ They finish the call, with Sadie silently cursing herself for sounding so shifty. ‘Han?’ she murmurs at the bathroom door.

‘Uh-huh?’

‘You’re up early. Are you okay?’

‘Yes, I’m good … I’ll be out in a minute if you want a bath. Don’t worry – you don’t have to use my water, although I haven’t even cut my nails …’

Sadie takes a deep breath, trying to shake off her unease as Hannah emerges in a bath towel and gives her a quizzical look. ‘So … how are
you
feeling?’ she asks with a grin.

‘I’m all right … I think. Bit fuzzy. Boobs sore from not feeding.’

Hannah frowns. ‘Anything you can do about that?’

‘Express milk,’ Sadie says, wincing. ‘I’ll do it in the shower in a minute.’

‘Right …’ Hannah hesitates.

‘Um … how much did I have to drink last night?’

‘Not loads. Apart from that champagne on the train, maybe two or three cocktails …’

‘Is that all?’ Sadie exclaims. ‘Because all I can remember is being in Felix’s bar, chatting and then dancing, and then it all goes …’ She shakes her head fretfully. ‘It’s all blurred. I think one of my drinks might’ve been spiked …’