The Story of Us (24 page)

The caffeine did the trick, although I swallowed it fast enough to burn my throat as it went down. Jack had wanted to follow behind me in his car to make sure I got home safely, but I insisted that it really wasn't necessary.

‘You've drunk more beer than I have. You shouldn't be driving at all,' I told him, as I slid my arms into the sleeves of the jacket he was holding out for me. He reached behind my neck to free my hair from the collar, his fingers scraping along the sensitive skin.

‘I think a guy my size can manage three beers and not pass out drunk on a settee,' he teased.

‘I wasn't drunk, I was asleep,' I protested, as he fell into step beside me on the short walk down his drive. I pulled the keys from my bag as we drew to a stop beside my car. The night was bright and starry and so quiet that I could hear the faint sound of the sea slapping against the rocks on the beach.

We faced each other in the darkness, both looking strangely awkward and uncertain as to how the evening should end. I made the first move by reaching up and resting my hands on his shoulders and lightly touching my lips to his cheek. ‘Thank you for a lovely evening,' I said, pulling away, ‘I really feel much better now.'

He smiled gently and then reached for my hands in the darkness, startling me. I held my breath, as a thousand butterflies took up residency in my stomach. His eyes flickered as he looked at me and there was clearly something on his mind.

‘Emma… I wanted to say…' His voice tailed off, but his face revealed more than he realised. His warring thoughts were plainly visible, I saw them clearly; I also saw the precise moment when he changed his mind completely about whatever he intended to say.

‘Yes?' I prompted. Jack paused, and I knew without a single doubt that this had not been his original question.

‘Are you free on Friday afternoon?'

I was desperate to say,
‘No. Not that question. Ask me the other one, the one you've just rejected.'
But of course, I couldn't.

‘Possibly, why?'

‘I want to take another look at that lake before I leave and I probably wouldn't be able to find it without you.' As there was a state-of-the-art satnav sitting in his hire car, we both knew that wasn't entirely true. ‘We could always get something to eat afterward; I think I saw a restaurant not far from there last time. If you want to… of course.' He sounded strangely nervous and unsure of himself. ‘Will Monique give you the afternoon off?'

Of all the things I was unsure of in my life at that time – and there were plenty of them – that at least was easy to answer. ‘Absolutely,' I confirmed. In fact, if she knew who I was going with, she'd probably offer to pick up the tab at the restaurant.

Jack opened my car door and delivered three parting instructions: ‘Drive safely and get some proper sleep, and make up with Caroline,' he said, as I slid into the driver's seat.

‘Okay.'

‘I'll pick you up from your house at around four on Friday.'

‘It's a date,' I confirmed, and then panicked in case he thought that's what I believed it was. ‘I mean… it's not a date… that's just a figure of speech… I mean—'

‘Goodnight, Emma,' he said softly, closing my car door.

It was hard to tell in the dark, but as I reversed out of his drive, I was pretty sure he was smiling.

The shop was unusually busy on Monday and by the end of the day there was a dull nagging pain at the base of my spine and I was tired and irritable. As I pulled on to our drive I was looking forward to the prospect of a quick dinner and a very long soak in a deep bubble bath. Only I couldn't get my car in its usual space, because that spot was occupied by the last thing I wanted (or expected) to see there. Richard's car. ‘What the hell,' I muttered, as I pulled up alongside it and glanced within. Empty. So he was already inside.

A fleeting movement at the window caught my eye, which meant someone had heard me pull up. No chance now to make a hasty retreat and drive the streets aimlessly until he'd gone, which had been my gut reaction.

I should have been expecting this, I thought, sitting in my car and quietly fuming. It was almost inevitable, given how my parents had reacted to the news of our break-up. I'd put off telling them for days, but once I knew our broken engagement was public knowledge, I'd had no choice but to sit them down one night after our evening meal and effectively break my mother's heart. To watch her face crumple as I explained as slowly and patiently as I could that Richard and I had decided we would no longer be getting married, was every bit as terrible as I thought it was going to be.

‘We've decided that perhaps we may have rushed into things a little,' I'd said gently, wondering if the lie sounded as false to them as it did to me.

My father, sitting on the settee beside my shocked and dismayed mother, hadn't accepted such a vague explanation. ‘But you've known Richard for twenty-five years, how is that rushing?'

Thanks for that, Dad.
I had reached over to take hold of my mother's hand, wondering if this was how torn and desperate parents must feel when they tell their children that they're getting divorced. My mum certainly looked as bereft as a child on hearing that her world was about to be torn apart.

‘I think we may have rushed into
the engagement
,' I clarified. ‘We really hadn't been back together long enough to make that kind of decision. I think we've both changed a lot while we've been apart. We aren't the same people we were when we were teenagers.'

My mother had nodded mutely back at me, which might have meant that she understood, except her eyes were confused and awash with tears.

‘When you really love each other, then how long you've been together isn't the issue. Your mother and I got engaged after only three months.'

Again, Dad, thank you.

‘Maybe you'll change your mind?' my mum had asked in a tragically hopeful voice.

‘I don't think so, Mum.'

‘Everyone has the odd tiff,' she had said, as though enlightening me to a world I might never have glimpsed before. ‘It's probably just a little touch of cold feet. That'll be what it is.'

Cold feet. Cold heart. Cold everything, actually, Mum.

My father hadn't bought the version of the truth which I had so carefully rehearsed, but at least he had enough good sense not to pressure me further.

‘I had an outfit and a hat, and everything,' my mum said sorrowfully. ‘You two are just so perfect together. Everyone says so.'

I couldn't hold it together for much longer, and thankfully we were almost done. And then came my father's parting question: ‘Emma, does this decision have anything at all to do with Amy?'

I saw a racing kaleidoscope in my head: the shattered windscreen, Amy's terrible injuries and then her body entwined in hot and sweaty passion with Richard's. ‘No. Not really,' I had lied, then escaped to the privacy of my room before I lost it completely.

When I dropped my bag and jacket on the hall table, I could hear the sound of voices coming from the dining room. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the gold-framed wall mirror, and was surprised at how normal I looked. There should have been steam coming out of my ears, because I was definitely only a few degrees from boiling point.

‘There she is,' cried my mum delightedly as I opened the door, and three faces turned in my direction. Two of them were smiling, but the third looked guarded and wary, with very good reason. The table was set for four, and there were covered serving dishes and a steaming casserole at its centre. Richard was occupying the chair he usually claimed during the numerous meals he'd shared with us over the years. He had a glass of lager half-raised to his mouth, and eyed me cautiously over its rim. With admirable restraint I resisted the urge to rip it from his hand, or tip it all over him, although both ideas had merit.

‘What's going on here?'

I saw my mother give a nervous swallow, and my father laid his hand comfortingly on her shoulder. ‘Nothing's “going on” here.' His voice was placating. ‘We're just having dinner, that's all.'

I turned to stare meaningfully at Richard, just in case they hadn't noticed that someone who definitely didn't live here had joined our table. My mum shifted uncomfortably in her chair, but this time it was my ex-fiancé who reached across the table to reassuringly squeeze her hand. Terrific. Between them, they had now made
me
the bad guy.

‘It's okay, Frances, Emma's just surprised to see me here, that's all.'

Surprised wasn't the word I'd have gone for, and I'm sure he knew that from the silent daggers I shot at him across the room.

‘Could I have a word with you, please, Richard? Outside.' It was a wonder I got the words out as my lips were so tightly compressed. Richard got easily to his feet, and turned to smile apologetically at my parents.

‘You'd better make it a quick one,' my dad advised. ‘I'm just about to serve, and it's that chicken dish you like, lad.' Just the thought of food made my stomach twist in protest, or was it hearing my father talk to my ex so warmly?

Richard deliberately took his time, carefully pushing his chair back to the table and dropping his serviette beside his plate while I waited at the door with growing impatience. Why was he bothering? Surely he realised there was no way he was coming back to the table?

He followed me into the hall and I made sure the dining room door was tightly shut before rounding on him like a kick-boxer. ‘What the hell are you doing here?' I spat out.

‘Are you going to deck me if I say “having dinner”?'
He realised quickly it was a bad moment to have gone for humour. ‘Look, your parents phoned me today, and invited me over. What was I meant to say?'

‘Er… “No” would have worked.'

‘How could I, when your dad said your mum was really upset about… you know… you and me?'

‘There is no “you and me”. Not any more. Remember?'

He went on as though I hadn't spoken, ‘Then when he told me she hadn't been sleeping properly because of it, what was I supposed to have said?'

His explanation stung, but it also rang painfully true. Even Richard wasn't so insensitive that he'd have come round without an invitation. But why hadn't Dad said anything to
me
about how my mother was coping?

‘And then,' Richard continued, with somewhat less confidence, ‘I thought that… maybe…
you
might have asked them to call me? That you wanted to make the first move…?' My eyes widened in disbelief, but before I could say a word, he quickly added, ‘But I see now, that wasn't the case.'

I shook my head despairingly. This was probably all my fault. If I'd just told my parents the
real
reason why I'd broken things off with Richard, my dad was more likely to have approached him with a shotgun than a casserole dish. But they both still thought we'd only had some stupid row, or that I had a case of pre-wedding jitters. Now, unless I threw him bodily from the house and risked upsetting them even more, I was going to have to stomach an evening sitting across the table from him.

‘Come on, you two, it's getting cold,' came the summons from beyond the panelled door.

‘This is not over,' I hissed, turning on my heel and gripping the door handle. But he also reached for the brass knob, his fingers covering mine as he stepped close behind me. For just a moment we stood on the edge of a déjà-vu chasm of memories.

‘No, Emma. It's not,' he confirmed on a low promise. ‘It's not over at all.'

It wasn't the best of meals, but it wasn't the worst either. No one stabbed anyone with an item of cutlery, or emptied a piping hot dinner into anyone's lap. That's not to say I didn't think about it, though. Richard's recent school trip occupied most of the conversation, which was fine with me. The less opportunity we had to speak to each other, the less likely we were to end up in a slanging match.

I hated being so defensive and prickly in my own home, hated the feeling that he was invading my personal space. There were boundaries and he wasn't respecting them, and that wasn't going to change if my well-meaning parents kept trying to matchmake us back together again. It was hard to ignore their expectant and hopeful expressions throughout the meal. They were like scientists studying a polar icecap, eagerly anticipating the first moments of a thaw. They were in for a long wait.

When the oven timer pinged and my father disappeared to get the apple pie and custard (another Richard favourite, Dad really
was
pulling out all the stops) an awkward atmosphere fell over the table. Although Mum listened attentively to conversations, she wasn't much of a contributor since her illness. But her chaperoning presence meant neither Richard nor I could say exactly what we wanted. Instead we spoke through our eyes and in our body language. When my father returned I was sitting ramrod straight in my chair, as though awaiting the arrival of an executioner instead of dessert. By the time the plates were cleared I had a colossal headache, and wanted nothing more than to retreat to the sanctuary of my room.

‘Coffee anyone?'

Richard opened his mouth to accept, and then caught the look on my face.

‘I can't, I'm afraid, Bill. I've a stack of marking I have to get through tonight.' He got to his feet.

‘Oh what a shame,' said my mother with regret, ‘but actually
I've
got a pile of homework to mark too before morning.'

For just a moment the wall between Richard and me crumbled to dust as we exchanged a meaningful look.

‘I'll see you out,' I said, and he nodded in agreement. He dropped a kiss on my mum's cheek, thanked my father for the meal, and followed me once again to the hallway.