‘Yes.’
It’s clear he can’t think of anything else to ask, and we sit for a moment in silence. I keep looking at Chris, poking at my feelings, to see how I feel about seeing him. If I’m honest, I’m slightly irritated. I think his tone when he speaks to Edward is off, and I don’t see why it should be. He should be relieved, surely, that I’ve met someone. Pleased, even. But I don’t think he is.
‘That’s not your name, though, is it? Fortescue?’
‘Oh God.’ I laugh, and look at Edward. ‘No. It’s a joke, sort of.’
I remember when he explained the shop name to me. It’s the most ridiculous in-joke that no one would ever get. His response, when I said that, was, ‘And anyone who does get it is clearly to be avoided. It’s a joke for me.’
‘A joke?’
‘It’s not important,’ I say, dismissive. Cerys is back again with her notebook, and I order coffee and cake, while Chris asks for ham, egg and chips, and Edward just has coffee.
I feel the conversation is, more or less, dependent on my thinking of things to say, which is annoying. I talk a bit about Baldochrie and Christmas and the Lodge.
‘You’re not going to sell it then?’
‘Not at the moment.’ I don’t feel it’s necessary to explain my plans. I’m reminded of something I meant to ask before. ‘Is Susanna going to sell her house?’
‘No, she’s renting it at the moment. That seemed the best idea.’
I nod. ‘In case you split up.’
‘We’re not going to split up.’
I think I’ve annoyed him. ‘Well, I know,’ I say. ‘But you might. I mean–’
Edward’s phone rings. He looks at it and mutters, ‘Bugger. I ought to take this,’ he says, looking up at me apologetically.
I wave a hand. ‘That’s fine, go on.’
He gets up and wanders away. ‘Hey, Roger, hi…’ and then I’m on my own with Chris. He watches Edward walk away, and then turns his attention to me.
‘Xanthe says his brother’s a lord,’ he says, disbelieving.
‘Yeah,’ I say, distracted. ‘He is.’
‘That’s weird. He doesn’t seem that posh.’
‘I think he made a lot of effort to be normal when he was young. That’s why he hasn’t got an accent. A Scottish accent, I mean. Because he really is posh. I think they beat it out of them at school.’
‘Where did he go to school? Eton?’ he says, derisively.
‘No, they went to Gordonstoun; it sounds terrifying. Prince Charles went there,’ I add. ‘And David Bowie’s son, but he got expelled.’
‘Huh.’
‘I know, mad, isn’t it.’
Cerys arrives with Chris’s lunch and my cake. ‘I’ll take Ed his coffee,’ she says. ‘Shout if you need anything.’
Chris thanks her and begins to eat. It’s clear the whole gentry thing bothers him, or intrigues him anyway.
‘Xanthe said she met his brother.’
I nod. ‘Charles, yes.’
‘So you’re mixing with the aristocracy. What do they call a lord’s brother?’
‘Mr Maltravers,’ I say. ‘In this case.’
‘So he’s not an Honourable or whatever?’
‘No. I mean, he was, when his dad was alive. But that’s just for the children of lords because they don’t have titles.’
‘That must be galling.’
I frown at him. ‘Why?’
‘Well, to have your brother be a lord and not be one.’
‘Oh! No – he’s the eldest. He gave it up. Did Xanthe not tell you this bit? He renounced the title.’
‘Oh. What an odd thing to do.’ I can tell from his face that he thinks this is both stupid and admirable. I shrug. ‘I suppose he wouldn’t be going out with you if he was a lord,’ he says, which I think is quite rude.
‘Probably not,’ I say, calmly. ‘Anyway, enough about that. What about your news?’
‘My news?’
I roll my eyes. ‘Do you honestly think I don’t know about it?’
‘About what?’
‘The baby.’
‘Oh.’ He looks uncomfortable. ‘Yeah.’
‘So congratulations and everything.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Are you excited about it?’
‘I… Yes, of course.’
I nod. Maybe I should just ask him, since we’re here. I clear my throat. ‘I didn’t know you wanted to have a family. You should have said.’
He looks up from his plate, where he’s dipping chips into the egg yolk in a desultory fashion. ‘It wasn’t planned,’ he says.
I’m relieved by this, even though it’s none of my business. ‘Oh. I thought perhaps–’
‘No.’
He doesn’t want to talk about it, but I’m going to make him. ‘I wondered if, you know. If that was why. Why you left me.’
‘Thea. No. Please don’t think that. It wasn’t… You know I didn’t exactly plan for any of this to happen.’
I nod. ‘I know. It’s okay. I… I didn’t like to think that perhaps I’d failed you somehow.’
‘Oh my God. Is that what you think?’ He looks appalled.
‘I didn’t know what to think. Because it’s not like we… I wondered if you’d wanted to and I hadn’t realized.’ I clear my throat. ‘I was more upset than I expected. I know it doesn’t make any difference, to me. But I was upset.’
‘Oh God. No, no. I know I should have told you myself. I’m sorry. I’m a coward. Honestly, you mustn’t…’ He looks up, behind my shoulder. ‘Look, there’s some stuff I need to talk to you about. It’s awkward with him here. Can I see you by yourself? Before I go home?’
‘I suppose so. I don’t see why not.’
‘It’s just… weird. No offence,’ he adds, as Edward sits down.
Edward’s not paying attention though. ‘That was Roger McBride,’ he says. ‘Got a house clearance he wants me to look at.’
‘Cool,’ I say. ‘Look – you don’t have to stay. If you want to go back to the shop?’
He looks from one of us to the other. ‘Sure. Leave you to it?’
I nod. ‘Won’t be long. Will I?’
Chris, who looks pained, shakes his head.
‘Okey-doke. See you later.’ He stands up again, and then leans down to kiss me. ‘I’ll cook for half six, shall I?’
I nod.
‘Let me know if you think you’ll be later. Good to meet you,’ he says to Chris, unconvincingly.
We sit for a moment in silence. Surely we won’t be here until half six. It’s only quarter to four.
I take a breath and try not to panic.
Twenty-Seven
‘Go on then, what did you want to say?’
He sighs. ‘I don’t know. Everything’s weird.’
‘Right.’
‘Christmas was weird, and–’
‘Weird how?’
I’m curious. I had a lovely Christmas, even though I was disappointed Edward wouldn’t dress up for the town’s Victorian shopping festivities. He ended up hiding upstairs while I did it. But now I have lots of photos of me in a top hat, so I guess it’s still a win. And then for Christmas Day and Boxing Day we went to the Shed and it was freezing cold but brilliant. We ate loads of food and had lots of sex. I’d have to say it was one of the best Christmases ever. Just thinking about it makes me smile.
Chris, however, is not smiling. ‘I don’t know. Noisy. Busy. Different.’
‘That’s all your Christmases from now on,’ I tell him, amused by his expression. ‘Anyway, I thought Christmas with children was meant to be magical. Just think,’ I add, ‘next Christmas you’ll have a baby! You can buy one of those outfits with “Baby’s first Christmas” on it.’ I laugh. He doesn’t. He just sits there. It’s hard work, this. I don’t know why I have to make all the effort; I didn’t ask him to visit me. I watch two older couples come in, peruse the cake selection, and then head out to the conservatory, sitting to our left. It seems to take th
em for ever to struggle out of their coats and scarves and settle into their corner. Chris has finished his food and is fiddling with the pepper grinder. I nearly lean over and take it from him, but I know it would be inappropriate.
‘Does Susanna know you’re here?’ I ask with interest. He looks shifty, which is not a thing I’m used to.
‘No,’ he says, ‘I thought it might be better not to tell her. I told her I was going to see Barney.’
Barney lives in Jedburgh. Chris was at university with him; he’s quite odd. Odd enough that it would make sense for Chris not to take Susanna to visit him. I nod.
‘She’d be upset that you wouldn’t want to see her.’
I look at him blankly. ‘Why on earth would I want to see her?’
‘She doesn’t like to think that you hate her.’
I snort. ‘She should have thought about that before, shouldn’t she? Anyway, I don’t hate her, particularly. I mean, I did, I suppose, but really.’ I shrug. ‘I wish it hadn’t happened, but it did, and we all have to get on with it, don’t we?’
‘You’re happy?’ he asks, rather abruptly.
I think about it. I’m not all that happy to be here, now, if I’m honest. Mostly I am, though; unexpectedly and delightfully happy, despite the dark thread of sadness that still lingers on the edges of my life. I’m fairly confident that will go away, in the end.
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘I’m happy.’
‘You like him, that… Edward.’
‘I like him a lot, yes. I’ve been lucky, to meet someone. I didn’t expect to.’
He’s still restless, fiddling with his spoon now, eyes sliding across my face.
‘And you? You’re happy?’ I feel obliged to ask. Cerys, bringing coffees for the old people, has brought me one too. I’m grateful for this, and the unobtrusive way she slides it in front of me and hurries away. ‘Looking forward to being a… to the baby? When will it be born?’
‘April. I… Yes,’ he says, but I don’t believe him.
‘It will be all right, once it’s born. I expect you’re just nervous. It’s a big thing, isn’t it? You shouldn’t worry, though. People fall in love with their children.’ I smile at him, trying to be reassuring.
That was my job for a long time – to reassure him. You can’t just forget something like that. When he was anxious about something at work, or if he had a row with his mum. He hasn’t done that for years, but when we were young they used to fight.
I wonder what his parents think about all this. They’ve been grandparents for ages; his eldest niece is seventeen or eighteen. I feel guilty that I’ve more or less dropped his family. But I’m sure it’s easier for them not to have to think about me. I did send a Christmas card, but I didn’t buy gifts, or birthday presents either, for the girls who were my nieces. That’s mean; it’s not their fault. I shall try to do better.
‘I think I’m too old,’ he says. I see it in his face – he’s terrified, the poor bastard.
‘Oh, come on, Rod Stewart’s a lot older than you,’ I say, and then, since he looks baffled, I add, ‘and he’s just had a baby. Or quite recently.’
‘At least he’s had loads of children already. He knows what to do. And he probably doesn’t have to do anything anyway. Being Rod Stewart.’
‘Yeah, true. But anyway, look, my grandfather was forty-three when my mum was born, and he didn’t die until she was nearly forty-three herself. If you’re worried about that.’
‘I’m worried about everything,’ he says.
‘Oh dear. Does Susanna know? That you’re worried? You probably should talk to her. And not me, ha ha.’
‘I know, I’m sorry. I just… It’s hard to talk to her, she’s so busy all the time, and the kids are there and…’
I sip my coffee, watching him over the rim of the cup. ‘More fun when you were just shagging?’
‘It’s not that,’ he says, but we both know there’s some truth in it.
‘I suppose you didn’t think about that. About the children.’
‘I had no idea we’d ever move in together,’ he says, ‘when it… when we were first–’
‘Oh yeah,’ I say, ‘that reminds me, I was going to ask about that. About when that was. I didn’t want to know at first. But now I do. When did you start… seeing her?’
‘I don’t know if… Is that helpful?’
‘I don’t know. But tell me anyway.’
He sighs. ‘D’you remember that bonfire party Deb and Andy had? When you had flu?’
I think of the autumn he’s talking about. I hadn’t had flu for years and was shocked at the severity of it. Four years ago last November.
‘Yes, I remember.’ It’s a long time ago. Quite shockingly so.
‘Well, I suppose it was after that.’
‘I wondered how it started. I mean, did you kiss her, or say something first, or what?’
‘Thea, I don’t think it’s something we should talk about.’
‘I don’t see why not. I mean I’ve had to live with the consequences. Had you fancied her for years?’
Four years ago? Flipping heck.
‘No, I’d never thought about it. About anyone.’
I nod politely. ‘Oh yeah.’
‘You do believe me?’
I shrug. ‘I guess.’
‘But she… I don’t know. It was dark, and cold, and there were lots of people and mulled cider–’
‘I remember you telling me about all those things,’ I say, ‘and baked potatoes and fireworks. But not about Susanna.’
‘No, well. We were chatting, and she just put her hand through my arm, you know, and… I could easily have ignored her, or pulled away, but I didn’t. And afterwards, I helped Deb put things away, and everyone had gone, more or less, except Susanna. I asked her how she was getting home, and she said she was walking. So I offered her a lift, and then she asked me in.’ He pauses. ‘The children were at James’s for the weekend.’
‘And that was that? You weren’t terribly late back, or I’d remember. Did you go to bed then?’
‘No, no of course not. No,’ he says, offended. ‘No. She gave me her phone number, and told me she–’
I’m not sure I want actual details. I can picture the hallway of Susanna’s house, imagine the scene: the cold, the darkness, the two of them in their winter coats, fumbling.
‘Did you kiss her?’
He looks at me and then away. ‘Yes. And she said…’
I can see he’s remembering it: the moment, the beginning, the start of ‘them’, the beginning of the end of ‘us’. It’s always pleasant to think of the start of something. I could find a smile and some warmth in the thought of the beginning of any of my relationships: the first kiss, the move from ‘potential’ to ‘actual’. But I don’t want to see it on his face. I wonder what she said. Did she tell him she liked him? Or that it was wrong? Or that she was up for it? I think of a summer evening long ago, Chris putting his arm round my shoulders for the first time as we sat slumped on the sofa in his rather grotty flat, the taste of cider and cigarettes. Tragic, isn’t it? It seems like five minutes ago and five hundred years.
He’s talking again, and I should listen.
‘I wasn’t going to do anything about it. I felt bad just for kissing her.’
‘Just’. It’s not nothing, is it? An illicit kiss, a secret snog, then back to your house, your bed, your wife.
I drain my cup, wait for him to go on.
‘I didn’t text her for ages.’ He wants me to believe him, and then forgive him. And maybe he didn’t text her right away. I bet he thought about it though. I wonder if he thought about it when we were together, in bed; did he imagine how it would be? Susanna with her mass of curls, her skin darker than mine, her frankly enormous breasts? I wouldn’t say she was fat, plump maybe, and she does have big tits. A comfortable body. She’s had three kids, after all. And she’s sexy, I suppose, if you like that sort of thing. I said before – earth-motherish. She’s got a tattoo on her
shoulder, a sunflower, and smells of coconut oil. I can almost smell it now; perhaps I can. He might smell of her. After all, she’s always there, isn’t she, in his house, buying shampoo for him and shower gel, ironing his shirts, possibly.
It’s interesting to think these things and watch myself for a reaction.
‘But then you started texting her? Is it weird that I want to know?’ I laugh. ‘I don’t know why I do, really.’
‘I told myself I was texting to tell her it… that I wasn’t going to… that I couldn’t get involved.’
‘Oh, right. But that’s not what happened.’
‘No. I was… it was… and then it seemed like just texting wouldn’t hurt. Although I knew it was wrong.’
‘And it escalated.’
He closes his eyes. ‘Yes.’
‘Okay. And when did you start sleeping together? That year?’
He doesn’t want to tell me, does he? He doesn’t like to think about it, or not as it might seem to me. Being in the wrong is problematic.
‘Not until the spring.’
‘Gosh. How restrained.’
He opens his eyes. He looks pained, but that’s not my problem, is it? I think I’m being very calm. I don’t even want to make him feel bad, but he’s a decent enough bloke, so I assume he is feeling bad. And then probably resentful because guilt makes you irritable. I bet he can think of a hundred reasons why all of this happened, and none of them will be ‘because I couldn’t keep it in my fucking pants’.
‘Thea–’
‘And then you fell in love. When was that?’
‘I don’t know. Not for a while, maybe that summer. I thought for ages it didn’t matter, that it didn’t make any difference to us. You and me.’
‘It didn’t seem to,’ I say. ‘I mean, I didn’t notice. That made it worse, I think. I had no idea. I didn’t even think you were being distant or that you were… absent more than usual. That’s what made it so odd for me. So difficult to process. It was a total shock.’
I think about that text he sent, the picture. Thinking about yesterday, was what he’d written. I don’t think I’ll ever forget it, how I felt when I saw it, her hands on him. Is that what he’s thinking about too? He looks embarrassed. As he should. I wonder if it was deliberate. Subconscious, maybe. If he was in love with her, and they wanted to be together. It was an easy way to do it. He never had to sit me down and say, ‘Thea, I’ve got something to tell you.’
The Bookshop of Second Chances Page 31