What Might Have Been (14 page)

24

E
van reached over to hit the ‘snooze’ button on his alarm clock, then, just as he remembered he didn’t own an alarm clock, realised the annoying buzzing sound was coming from his mobile on the chair in the corner of his bedroom. He leapt out of bed and lunged for it, stubbing his big toe painfully on the bedside table, then cursed when he saw the number displayed wasn’t Sarah’s as he’d hoped, but Mel’s.

‘What time is it?’

‘What am I?’ said Mel, gruffly. ‘The fucking speaking clock?’

‘That sounds like one of those dodgy 0800 numbers.’

‘Huh?’

‘Never mind.’ Evan located his watch on top of his chest of drawers. To his relief he hadn’t overslept and missed his appointment with Sarah. ‘Sorry, Mel. I’m still a bit groggy. Jet lag and a hangover aren’t the best combination.’

‘So how was the big stag night?’

‘Confusing.’

‘Don’t tell me – you didn’t know which knife and fork to use for each course, or what way to pass the port?’

‘No, nothing like that. It’s . . .’ Evan sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his throbbing toe. ‘I just can’t work out what she sees in him.’

‘He’s rich, right?’

‘Yeah, but . . .’

‘Good job, nice car, posh flat, expense account, probably gets his condoms tailor-made on Savile Row.’ Mel laughed ‘Well, there you go.’

Evan sighed. He was pretty sure it wasn’t the money – Sarah didn’t seem the type. When he’d taken her out to lunch by bringing her sandwiches to eat in the park, she’d seemed delighted with that. Had fun, even. And while he couldn’t help wondering about the kind of restaurants she and David went to, or where they spent their free time, David simply didn’t seem like a fun guy.

‘Sarah’s not impressed by that kind of thing.’

‘Okay, okay. But it’s probably the circles she moves in, yeah? So maybe impressed is the wrong word. “Accustomed to” might be a better way of describing it.’

‘She’s not like that, Mel.’

‘You positive, are you?’

‘Pretty much. I mean, I’ve known women in the past who were all about money or status, their goal in life to land the rich guy, or the one up on stage in front of them . . .’

‘Like she did with you?’

Evan opened his mouth to answer, then shut it again. He knew well enough that there was something about musicians that women seemed to find attractive – simply being part of ‘the band’ would increase even the most average-looking person’s sex appeal ten-fold. Ask most teenage boys who played an instrument why they took it up in the first place, they’d tell you it was to meet girls, and if they didn’t, they were probably lying.

‘It wasn’t the same.’

‘No?’

‘No!’

‘How can you be sure?’

‘Hello? Jazzed? I’ve been there, remember. And even on the Police tour we had a few hanging around, trying to get noticed by the main men . . .’

‘Old men, you mean? They’re closer to drawing their pensions than I am!’ Mel laughed down the phone. ‘Which just proves that fame and money are aphrodisiacs. It’s just a shame you don’t have either anymore. And that your new bestie has the latter.’

‘Mel, he’s not my new bestie.’

‘Well, he seems to be Sarah’s, so there has to be something about him. But what will you do if it
is
the money?’

‘Borrow some from you?’

‘I’d have to get it back from my ex-wives first,’ said Mel, bitterly. ‘But seriously . . .’

‘Then Sarah’s not the girl I thought she was. And so she’s not for me.’

‘Well, let’s hope that’s not the case, eh?’ There was a pause as Evan heard Mel light a cigarette, followed by a loud series of coughs. ‘Anyway, what are you up to?’

‘Sleeping.’

‘Lazy sod.’

‘Mel, I had a late night, more alcohol than even
you
could put away, and I’m still on American time. So unless the club’s on fire, or you’re trapped under something heavy . . .’

‘I should be so lucky.’ Mel laughed again. ‘Fancy continuing this conversation over lunch?’

‘I can’t.’

Mel sighed loudly. ‘Don’t tell me – you’re meeting up with David for Pimms on the lawn, followed by a game of croquet.’

‘I’m meeting Sarah, actually.’

‘Great,’ said Mel. ‘You can stop wasting my time and ask her yourself, then.’

‘Yeah, right.’

‘Oh, and go and see Johnny. He’s got some news for you.’

‘Johnny? My agent Johnny?’

‘No – Johnny Cash.’ Evan could almost hear Mel roll his eyes. ‘Of course Johnny your agent. Though funnily enough, you might start calling him Johnny Cash after . . .’

‘Bye, Mel.’

Evan ended the call and flopped miserably back down on the bed. Mel was right – there had to be something. And aside from asking Grace, which he hadn’t been able to do, or even quizzing Sarah directly, which he didn’t
dare
do, Evan couldn’t think how to find out what it was, and if he couldn’t, then how on earth could he compete with it?

He stared blankly up at the ceiling until the room stopped spinning, then hauled himself up and headed for the shower.
One thing at a time
, he told himself, and at the moment, the most important thing was to actually leave Sarah in no doubt as to how he felt about her. Next, he’d need to make her see that David wasn’t right for her, and after that . . . well, that
he
was. And then? He’d deal with that if things ever got that far, because right now, the prospect of achieving those first two objectives was looming above him like the North face of the Eiger.

And he had to start climbing.

Fast.

25

S
arah was leaning on the sink, inspecting her face in the bathroom mirror. Under the harsh fluorescent light, make-up free,
and
with a hangover, she worried she looked older than her thirty-four years. Thank heaven for concealer, she thought, rummaging around in her make-up bag.

She was tired, too, which no doubt contributed to the dark circles underneath her eyes. The last of the girls had left at around three a.m., and she and Grace had been up for a further half an hour dabbing at the rug with 1001. Cosmopolitans were all well and good except when they spilt everywhere, as the third or fourth one invariably did.

She rubbed gingerly at the faint scratches on her breasts, courtesy of the sharp corners of last night’s L-plates. It had been a fun evening, up until Evan’s unscheduled appearance, and while she didn’t know what had happened to the
actual
stripper, Evan had been a shocking enough interlude. And according to Grace, the look on her face had been priceless.

The smell of bacon drifting in under the bathroom door was making her stomach do somersaults, so she made her way into the kitchen, where Grace was standing in front of the grill.

‘How can you?’

Grace turned and smiled at her. ‘Best hangover cure ever. Well, second best. But seeing as I’m currently single, it’ll have to do.’ She pulled the grill pan out and inspected the charred rashers, then
nodded
towards the kitchen table, where several slices of thickly-buttered-and-ketchupped white bread had been piled on a plate. ‘Want one?’

‘How many people are you making breakfast for?’

‘Just you and me.’ She peered over Sarah’s shoulder. ‘Unless a certain someone stayed over?’

Sarah turned red, feeling guilty for not telling Grace last night that she’d agreed to see Evan today, but she could hardly believe she’d agreed to it herself. Besides, Grace might not approve, and the last thing Sarah needed at the moment was her friend’s disapproval, especially since she suspected she might need her support over the next few days.

‘Don’t start.’

‘Sorry.’ Grace grinned mischievously. ‘How are you feeling?’

Sarah flopped down into the nearest chair. ‘I don’t know. Him turning up like that . . .’

‘I meant your hangover.’

‘Huh? Oh. A bit rough, actually. I think it might have been
the fis
h.’

‘As in you drinking like one?’

‘Ha ha,’ said Sarah. At least the splitting headache she’d woken up with was fading, thanks to the Advil she’d taken at breakfast. None of that lightweight English paracetamol for her – Americans knew how to medicate. Though Sarah knew it could have been worse, but Evan’s surprise appearance had sobered her up pretty quickly, and as soon as she’d known she was seeing him today, she’d stopped drinking altogether. ‘You feeling bad?’

‘Nothing one or two of these won’t fix.’ Grace turned the grill off and switched into bacon sandwich assembly-line mode. ‘Here,’ she said, handing Sarah a plate, along with a glass of orange juice. ‘Get that down you.’

Sarah hesitated for a moment, then picked the sandwich up and took a bite, causing ketchup to drip onto the front of her
dressing gow
n.

‘I didn’t actually mean “down you”.’ Grace handed her a piece of kitchen towel. ‘It’s lucky we
don’t
have guests . . .’

‘
Grace
.’

‘Sorry.’

They ate in silence for a few moments, until Grace couldn’t help herself.

‘So . . .’

‘So what?’

‘Any thoughts?’

‘About?’

Grace just stared at her, so Sarah sighed resignedly and put her half-eaten sandwich down on her plate. ‘He asked me to meet him. To talk.’

‘When?’

‘Today. Lunchtime.’

‘You’re not going?’

‘Well . . .’

Grace paused, mid-chew. ‘
Sarah
. . .’

‘I just thought, well, he’s flown all the way back over, and it might be the last time I ever see him, so . . .’

‘What about David?’

‘What about him? I’m not planning to
do
anything.’

‘You weren’t planning to do anything a year ago, and look what happened then.’

‘This is different.’

‘How?’

‘Because I’m engaged.’

‘Which is exactly why you shouldn’t be meeting your old
boyfriend
. And especially one who’s unfinished business.’

‘He’s not an old boyfriend.’

‘I notice you didn’t correct my second observation.’ Grace picked up her sandwich and took another bite. ‘Is he coming here?’ she mumbled, covering her mouth with her hand as she spoke.

‘No. We’re meeting at the Tate. In the café.’

‘Isn’t that a bit public?’

‘Which is exactly why it’s okay.’

Grace looked horrified. ‘What if David sees you? Don’t you think you should phone him to see where he is? Or at least find out how his evening was, and maybe buy yourself a few hours?’

Sarah glanced at the clock on the front of the cooker. It wasn’t yet midday, and knowing David’s capacity for lie-ins (not to mention his capacity for alcohol) she decided to leave him be. ‘It’s the Tate. The only time he goes anywhere with art on the walls is if it’s for sale, so I think I’ll be safe, especially in the café. David wouldn’t be seen dead in a venue with a laminated wine list.’

Grace raised both eyebrows. ‘Isn’t everything for sale at the right price?’

Sarah laughed. ‘I think the Tate collection’s beyond even him. Besides, the only thing he hates more than jazz is modern art.’

‘I think he might change those two things around if he knows what you’re up to.’

‘I’m not “up to” anything, Grace.’

‘No?’

‘No.’ Sarah put the rest of her sandwich down on her plate. ‘Maybe this’ll be our big clear-the-air session. So we can deal with all those unsaid things that have been left hanging for the last year, and part as friends.’

‘I didn’t think you could have a friend whose clothes you wanted to rip off every time you saw them.
Especially
if you’re
married
.’ Grace smiled wryly. ‘You are going to finish it, aren’t you?’

‘There’s nothing to finish, Grace.’

‘I meant your sandwich,’ said Grace, eyeing Sarah’s plate
hungrily
. ‘What time are you meeting him?’

‘One.’

‘Well, don’t you think you ought to get dressed? You don’t want to be late. For your hot date. At the Tate. ’Coz he might not wait . . .’ She’d adopted a sing-song voice, and Sarah glared at her good-naturedly.

‘Grace, please.’

‘Then again, he’s waited a year . . .’

Sarah shook her head as she slid her plate over towards her
flatmate
. ‘Here. Hopefully this’ll shut you up.’

As Grace wolfed down the rest of her sandwich, Sarah sipped her orange juice, then she got up and made her way to the
bathroom
to a chorus of ‘Can’t be late for your date at the Tate,’ from a full-mouthed Grace. She found Evan’s choice of meeting venue
interesting
– of course, he couldn’t come here to the flat, and she wouldn’t have trusted herself at his, and to name a random
coffee
bar for their rendezvous might have been risky, but there? She’d been back many a time since that fateful day. It was her favourite view of London. His favourite view
in
London, he’d told her once – and he’d been gazing at her at the time, so maybe he was trying to be clever. Remind her of the old times. But then again, old times were exactly that. Things were different now.

She brushed her teeth, shaved her legs, then faced the clothing dilemma. If she and Evan were together, she wouldn’t care what she wore to meet him, as it’d only end up in a pile on the bedroom floor within minutes of their kiss hello. But they weren’t, so she needed to convey an image that said that she was off the market – though how on earth did you do that if a flash of your engagement ring and the imminence of your wedding hadn’t worked?

Pulling on a pair of jeans, she checked her rear view in the full-length mirror, then selected a simple white blouse, doing up the buttons until they just hid her bra, then undoing one again. While today was show-and-tell, she couldn’t resist a little show-and-tempt too – she’d always found Evan’s lustful gaze so flattering. David never looked at her like that, his expression generally more grateful than excited, like a faithful old Labrador about to be fed.

She finished applying her make-up, then stood back from the mirror, deciding she’d hit upon the right combination of casual and sexy. Just what a girl wanted to look like if she was meeting a former lover.
That was it
, she told herself. He’d been a fling, nothing more. Whereas David had been her boyfriend, now he was her fiancé. On Saturday he’d be her husband – and that made a big difference.

She caught sight of the time and felt the butterflies in her stomach increasing, although they were nothing new. She’d been feeling like this ever since the wedding had loomed up out of the distance, and now it seemed to be marching inexorably towards her. And while so far she’d managed to keep it in her peripheral vision, Evan’s sudden reappearance had brought next Saturday front and centre.

With a sigh, Sarah picked up her keys, shouted goodbye to Grace, and walked out of her front door.
Yes
, she thought, fingering her engagement ring as she walked past David’s BMW,
things were definitely different now
.

Although she was a little worried that she had to keep repeating that fact to herself.