When Love Knocks Twice (A Contemporary Love Story) (9 page)

Tom,
stunned by her outburst, was completely speechless.

Gail
turned to look at him. “There, you see. I've shocked you, and I
suppose that was the part of me that wanted to come up here with you.
The part that wants to kick over the old traces and move on, and to
hell with what other people think.”

“ If
only life were that simple,” conceded Tom.

“ I
don't want this week to stop,” declared Gail. “That's the
bottom line I think. It's got me out of the rut that I don't want to
sink back into.”

“ And
I've been the bonus?” suggested Tom.

“ You
silly man,” accused Gail. “You are the reason. The
holiday is the bonus.”

“ So,
where do we go from here?” asked Tom.

“ Hey,
that's my line. Find your own difficult question to ask.”

“ Well,
we have to leave Skye that's for sure.”

“ Shame,”
protested Gail. “ But you will stay with me on your way south,
won't you?”

“ Yes,
I'll break the journey at your place. That is, if you don't mind,”
agreed Tom.

“ Of
course I don't mind. I insist.”

By
this point they were sitting in what passed for darkness at that time
of year. Tom started the car and they moved off down the coast,
headlights picking out the sheep grazing on the roadside verges.

As
they eventually pulled up outside the cottage, Tom killed the engine
but neither of them made an immediate move to get out of the car, as
if some train of words or deeds might be broken by such an action.

“ You
know,” started Tom, hesitantly . “I love having you
around and I think I will miss you chronically when you're not there.
Come to that I think I don't want to miss you at all.”

“ I
know how you feel. Come on. Today is today, let tomorrow take care of
itself.”

That
night in bed, as they lay with half-packed suitcases around them,
they hugged more tightly to each other, as if increasing the
intensity would somehow combat the threat of impending loneliness.

Saturday

The
dawn was masked in grey, the mountain peaks occluded by cloud, and
there was rain in the air. They made an early start to packing up,
which virtually meant throwing in their night things. Breakfast was a
bizarre mixture of odds and sods, clearing out the fridge of
left-overs. By seven thirty they were ready to pack the car, and yet
reluctant to make a start. Gail took photographs of the inside of the
cottage with her mobile phone, careful to avoid getting the suitcases
in shot.

“ I
want something to remember it by,” she declared, in answer to
Tom's raised eyebrows.

Finally
they loaded the suitcases into the car, along with the remaining food
and those odd things that one always seemed to accumulate while away
on holiday. They had no sooner climbed into the car than the rain
started, a heavy drizzle. Before Tom had a chance to start the car,
Gail made a last plea.

“ Let's
not go.”

“ What?”

“ Let's
not go. We can find somewhere to stay I'm sure. I don't want to
leave.”

Tom
gave her a very funny look, so she continued. “Okay, I'm not
being rational, I'm not being sensible. You'd better start the car
before I get out.”

So
he did.

Half
an hour later, as they came off the bridge onto the mainland with
hardly a word spoken, Tom appeared to remember something.

“ Did
you turn off the gas bottle before we left?”
“Yes. Did
you check under the bed for anything we might have left?”

“ Yes.
Did you double check that we'd cleared the bathroom?”

“ Yes.
Did you check the fridge was empty?”

“ Yes.
Did you put the cottage key back in the keysafe?”

Gail
checked her handbag. “Yes.”

“ That's
all right then.”
“Listen to us,” commented Gail,
drily. “Just like an old married couple.”

Tom
didn't comment. The windscreen wipers set up a melancholy rhythm. It
occurred to Tom that whereas their journey to Skye had had the air of
a school outing about it, the return journey had the feeling of
impending exams, an air of doom. Whereas before there had been a
companionable silence there was now an uneasy tension.

“ You
remember what I said last night,” said Gail, breaking a long
silence.

“ What
exactly?” replied Tom.

“ One
part of me wants to turn my life upside down, move in with you, marry
you or whatever. That was supposed to provoke a response from you,
but all I got was silence.”

“ I
wasn't sure if you were being serious or flippant.”

“ Neither
was I, but either way you didn't respond.”

At
this point Tom was trying to overtake a slow-moving truck, and used
the necessary concentration required, to evade a response once again.

“ I
know,” said Gail. “You're trying to make sense of this
mad woman, and failing miserably.”

Having
safely negotiated the overtaking manoeuvre, Tom glanced round at her
to try and gauge what expression was accompanying these statements.

“ Keep
your eyes on the road,” warned Gail.

They
lapsed into silence for a few minutes.

“ It's
not going to work, is it?” started Gail, more of a statement
than a real question, as if challenging a rebuttal.

“ I
think we need to go home and think about it.”

“ Then
it will never happen. We will get back in our ruts and stay there. Is
that what you want?”

“ No,
but I'm not sure what the viable and practical alternative at the
moment.”

They
lapsed into silence again.

They
made their way over Rannoch Moor, an inhospitable place even in the
best of weathers, but now in the mist and rain, it was an even more
depressing world, which seemed to echo the atmosphere in the car.

Gail
appeared to become somewhat distracted, staring vacantly out of the
window. She was thinking of the large empty house she was going home
to, on her own, compared to the small cosy cottage with the two of
them. She turned and glanced at Tom's profile concentrating on the
road. Was it possible to have a second relationship as good as her
first one? Is that what she wanted, and did she want it with this
man? Would she distance herself from her family to make it work? She
was so confused it was giving her a headache.

Tom
tried to keep his mind on the road and his concentration on the
driving but it was hard work. Somehow he felt that these next few
days could determine the rest of his life, but he couldn't bring
himself to tell Gail what he really felt about her, about the ache he
felt at the thought of leaving her. He was not prepared to put that
much emotional pressure on her. That wouldn't be fair.

The
journey seemed to pass a lot faster than their previous one had, and
neither of them could decide whether that was a good or a bad thing,
until they hit stationary traffic on Loch Lomondside.

“ We
don't seem to have a lot of luck by Loch Lomond, do we?”
suggested Tom.

“ No,”
came the monosyllabic reply.

They
sat in silence, the engine switched off, magnifying the quiet.

“ Oh,
what the hell is the matter with this traffic?” cried Gail.

“ It's
probably a minor accident, or even just a breakdown.”

“ Why
did it have to be now?”

“ It
didn't have to be now. Whenever it happened it was going to hold
someone up, and in this case it happens to be us.”

“ Bravo
Mr Logic,” retorted Gail, and if hands could have moved with
sarcasm they would have done so.

“ At
least we're not dashing for a plane,” replied Tom, ignoring
Gail's tone.

“ Oh,
I just want to get home,” she cried.

It
took them another hour to get free of the traffic jam, passing three
damaged cars sitting by the roadside, still surrounded by police
cars.

“ There
is always someone worse off than us,” commented Tom, pointing
out half a dozen somewhat shaken individuals sitting by the roadside.
“That's ruined their day.”

They
grabbed a quick bite to eat in Alexandria, not so much a social
occasion as a fuel stop.

It
was past four o'clock by the time they pulled into Gail's driveway,
and switched off the engine. They climbed out and stretched limbs,
before Tom opened the boot and picked out Gail's suitcase.

There
was a pause that was full of furious thought.

“ Perhaps
it would be best if I didn't stay,” suggested Tom, against his
better judgement.

Gail's
heart sank. This was the moment that she had been dreading, and if
there had been any doubt in her mind, it disappeared there and then.
She took a deep breath.

“ Tom
Drysdale, you crept away from me forty years ago. I am not going to
let you do it to me again.” There was a determination in her
voice that surprised even her.

“ You're
sure?”

“ I'm
sure. Now get your bloody bags out of there and come indoors.”

The
house was cold, and echoed. To Gail, it didn't seem to be the house
she had left, but she wondered whether it was the house that had
changed, or herself. Stupid woman, she thought, the house is an
inanimate object.

Gail
unpacked, the house warmed up, and they ate whatever she could find
in the freezer. They drank a bottle of wine, whether as an
anaesthetic or in order to dull the senses, was not clear.

At
ten o'clock Gail yawned for the umpteenth time and declared. “I
need to turn in. We were up early this morning. Are you coming to
bed?”

There
was a moment's hesitation from Tom before he replied. “Is this
going to make things difficult? Would it be better if I slept in the
spare room?”

“ Do
you want to?”

“No.”

“ Then
don't. Come to bed.”

So
for a second time he joined Gail in her bed, and in time they hugged
each other fiercely as if trying to ward off, or influence, the
future in some way.

Sunday

In
the morning breakfast was a very quiet affair, both of them lost in
their thoughts, but not revealing their feelings.

As
she cleared the dishes into the dishwasher, Gail said, “You're
going to go, aren't you.”

“ I
have to go.”

Gail
bit her tongue. She desperately wanted to say 'no you don't have to
go' but she managed to restrain the rising bitterness she was
beginning to feel.

“ In
that case then, you'd better go.”

All
this time she had not turned to face him, determined that her
expression would not give her true feelings away.

On
the driveway, there was a token hug, no kiss, no display of warmth,
as each determined not to give themselves away.

“ I'll
give you a ring,” promised Tom.

Gail
didn't recognise, or ignored, any double meaning.

“ Yes,
do that,” she replied without enthusiasm.

Recognising
that delaying things wasn't going to help anything, he climbed into
the car, and with a quick wave, he pulled out of the driveway and
left Gail standing on the doorstep.

The
next three days

Gail
slammed the door closed behind her, that might have ruined a lesser
door, but this one was made of stern stuff and stayed on its hinges.

“ Damn,
damn, damn,” she yelled at the empty hallway. “I hate
you, I hate you, I hate you.”

With
one kick she sent her walking boots flying across the room to leave a
muddy mark on the wallpaper opposite, before she subsided heavily on
the bottom step of the stairs with her head in her hands.

Except
she didn't hate him, she confessed to herself. She wanted his
company. She wanted to hear his dry wit. She wanted to feel his hug,
his hands stroking her. She wanted to wake up with him each morning.
Was that love? If it was then she had to admit that the last eight
days had been enough to make her fall in love.

And
where did that leave her? In an even worse place than when he had
walked back into her life. It sucked, she decided, staring at the far
wall as if expecting it to agree with her. And I can't tell him how I
feel, she argued, because that would be unfair emotional pressure

She
glanced at the ceiling and called out “You took Gordon from me,
and now you've taken Tom as well. What have I done to deserve it?”

After
a while she summed the strength to get to her feet, put the walking
boots back in place, and move through to the kitchen where the
breakfast dishes were crying out to be washed. That can wait, she
thought, and carried on through to the lounge, switching on the
television as she went.

And
that's where she spent the day, with a short break to have chocolate
and ice-cream for lunch, until the doorbell rang at five o'clock. She
debated whether to answer it or not as she didn't feel up to
visitors. Her decision was over-ruled by the sound of key in the
lock and Emily's voice in the hallway.

“ Hello?
Mum?”

“ In
here,” called Gail, reluctantly.

Emily
marched through into the lounge, waving a sheet of paper before
slamming it down on the coffee table.

“ Nice
cottage,” she barked.

“ Yes,
it was a nice cottage.”

“ Which
according to its web page, only has one bedroom.”

“ Were
you checking up on me, your own mother?” accused Gail.

“ You
sent me a postcard of it, so I went searching just out of interest,”
replied Emily, her voice rising in pitch and volume.