So when am I going to see you, babe?
I don’t know. Saturday? If I stay at yours it’s a shorter journey down to the boat on Sunday.
I may have walked away from the phone at that point, answered a call, even taught a lesson. Time blurs the detail, but I do remember there was a pause, a break in the conversation, and then I saw his reply and it made my stomach lurch.
Babe I’m out Saturday.
My heart pounded and my stomach lurched. Since my bad joke, the connection between us was breaking down and he had made other plans. I had brought this on myself. I replied with “oh okay” to let him know it wasn’t okay, and that things were not good.
Things had now been less than good, less than bad even, for two long days. I felt paralysed, responsible for everything and incapable of fixing it without taking a trip back in time. I waited, because I didn’t know what else to do, and to my relief and disbelief, on the Friday, Harry asked if we could forget it all and start over, because he missed me and loved me. The searchlight was back on. Curious detective had made way for a grateful doormat. He said he couldn’t live like this, couldn’t live without me, needed to see me, and he came over, taking me in his arms and holding me so tight it hurt.
“Are we good, baby?”
I was fighting back the tears. I wanted so much to say yes.
I left the children money for a delivery pizza, and told them Harry and I were going out. I had occasionally reminded him he hadn’t actually taken me on a real date yet, and this time he had responded with a huge bouquet of amaryllis and a choice of two activities.
“I thought we could go and sit on the common in the sunset and have a picnic.”
I had driven past all the loved-up sunset picnic couples a few days before, and I wanted to be them, with memories of lying on our horse jump sunbeds in Dorset soaking up the last rays.
“Or I will take you out for a meal. You choose. I just thought that a picnic, as it’s so hot…”
The picnic idea won hands down. He ran down the road and returned with a Sainsbury’s bag full of treats. Half an hour later we were lying on a blanket by the pond on the common, watching the sun go down and drawing a line under the week’s events.
“Thanks for this, Harry”. I gave him a tentative smile. It was getting cooler as the sun set but I steeled myself against the falling temperatures. This was not the time to complain about the cold.
He poured my wine and took his half of the blanket from under him, draping it around my shoulders. “Better?”
“How did you know?” I smiled.
“It’s bloody freezing, that’s how!”
We talked about Dorset. When things aren’t right, it’s instinctive to take yourself back to when they were, and we both did that well, recalling in impressive detail the moments when things fell into place, the number of coincidences about our past, the way things could have gone wrong at so many points. Harry reminded me of the night I spent with Isabel, calling him out on every failure to comply with my model of the perfect date. We laughed at how things had turned around. I closed my eyes and he dropped titbits into my mouth, poured me more wine and drove me home with a new smile on my face. We were good again.
Chapter 16
Touch and go
I woke up before it was light, vomiting and feverish. My head was pounding and cramps seared through my body, sending me to the bathroom where I spent an hour retching and clutching my tummy in agony. Harry brought me water, left me to sleep, tidied the kitchen, emptied the dishwasher, kept me informed of everything as it happened. It was nearly eleven when I opened bleary eyes to see him silhouetted in my bedroom doorway, one hand on the door frame, slightly out of breath from climbing two flights of stairs.
“I’m waiting for the kids to wake up so I can make them an omelette.”
Why he had decided on an omelette I was too sick to fathom. I tried to whisper that Sadie wouldn’t want breakfast and Josh would probably prefer a fried egg sandwich, then drifted back to sleep. When I woke again in the afternoon, still blurry and dizzy, he had cancelled his night out. The night out he had warned me about. The one that had meant I couldn’t stay at his house. There was no danger of me wanting to do that now.
“I’m going to stay with you babe. You need me here.”
But I’m never sick. Not with paralysing stomach cramps and a crashing headache. I have never known sickness like that.
It was that day he borrowed my car to go and look at a house in Putney. It occurred to me that although he had driven me back from Dorset, and back from the Common last night, I had never actually lent someone my car before, but I knew that anyone with half decent insurance would be insured third party on another car. When I mentioned it, his words were “I have personal insurance. I can drive any car,” and I didn’t question it. He would be the one being fined if it turned out not to be true. And I was too sick to care much.
He was out for the rest of the day. The children tiptoed up the stairs, held my hot hand, stroked my head and looked at me with fear and worry I hadn’t seen before. I murmured that I just needed more sleep. They asked what was wrong with me. I said I’d eaten something, or just caught some sort of bug, and we let it be. Alone in my bedroom, as the pain abated and the vomiting eased, I thought through what I’d had to eat and drink the day before, remembered Harry handing me my wine as I sat wrapped in a blanket in the sunset, and then later, tipping his away after I poured into his glass what I couldn’t manage.
If I had any real worries at that moment, they were forgotten when Harry bounced back into the room, full of excitement about his house viewings. He showed me photos online of the place he had just viewed.
“Look, babe, look at this place. Isn’t it perfect?”
It was a small terraced house just off Putney High Street with a garden and off-street parking. I flicked through the pictures, hardly able to focus, but forcing a smile.
“Are you going for it then?”
“I made an offer and they have accepted, but I can’t move in for a month.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Live at Paul’s place.”
“He okay with that?”
“He’s fine with it. I’m so pleased I’ve found something. And you can stay anytime, do your teaching from there. Look, you can use this.” He swiped back to a photo of a sun-drenched dining room where a Georgian bay window looked over a tidy lawn below.
“Thanks,” was all I could manage.
It was touch and go whether I’d make it to the sailing trip the next day, but I rallied, and we went.
After an unpleasantly early start and an hour’s drive, we reached the river Hamble just as the sun was beginning to break through the cloud. Caro was already aboard, pulling out ropes and attaching them to things. Harry climbed on and joined in with enthusiasm that made me smile and feel proud, introducing himself to James, Caro’s university friend Rob, and another couple I hadn’t met before. It was one of those groups that instantly gels, and with them, Harry and I were a couple. Nobody asked how we had met, how long we’d been together, and that gave me a sense of relief.
It was perfect sailing weather, and once we had reached the open sea, our novice crew obediently shuffled from side to side with every tack, turning handles and pulling ropes when instructed. Harry took selfies against the backdrop of the waves, hooting with excitement at every roll and pitch, updating his WhatsApp picture and status to tell the world what a whale of time he was having. The excitement on his face was new. I hadn’t seen him this on fire before.
“I’m definitely going to learn to sail.” He declared as we docked at Cowes Marina. “That was the best fun I’ve ever had in my life.” He proceeded to engage James in a conversation about the best courses, the best sailing holidays, and soon he was trying to persuade me to join him on this next venture. I made excuses, said I would think about it, and chastised him playfully for being so impetuous.
Wine was opened, baskets of picnic surprises
were turned out onto the folding table and we tucked in to a feast of unlikely offerings, cinnamon muffins, smoked cheese, Pringles and raw carrot batons. Harry was the life and soul of the boat, chatting to the boys about cars and motorbikes, describing his work, the Seatseller app, and winning new friends left right and centre. I leaned in for another selfie and felt good and safe again. We strolled around Cowes, stopping at a sweetie shop where I bought Harry bags of gobstoppers and lemon sherbets, too amused by his sweet tooth to notice it was another expense on my account.
We had a drink by the river before driving back home – cocktails in the sunset for the crew with pizza to share - and agreed it would be difficult to imagine a more perfect day. Harry stood aside from us for a while, staring out at the estuary, and I went to put my arm round him. He asked me if I was okay. Of course I was, as long as he was. He said later he thought that there was something between me and Rob. I reassured him, but in my mind there was a voice saying that this was just Jealous Craig all over again.
Back home, the tensions that had preceded our sailing day set right back in. He left for work in the morning and as soon as we were apart, I felt disconnected from him and unable to articulate why. Our conversations on the phone were stilted. I was nervous, wanting to ask things but not able to. Harry would ask me over and over, “What is it that happens when I’m away from you babe? You’re panicking again.”
I couldn’t answer, partly because I didn’t know, but the little I did know, I couldn’t express. He was at my house often enough, but when he wasn’t, I was painfully aware that I couldn’t place him in any context. He said he was staying at Paul’s, now that his house had been emptied, and I knew better than to argue, because he would look at me as if I’d gone mad, or didn’t trust him, which was worse.
“What’s up with you baby?” It started me wondering what was up. I was becoming a wreck of insecurity, suspicious and distrustful with no reason.
“Nothing. Nothing at all. Ignore me,” I said, and then there was a pause, and my stomach fluttered with anxiety. Wine calmed me, so I drank more wine. It helped me sleep.
He came back on Tuesday evening and I was safe again, but how soon until he left again? I didn’t dare ask. I just made him dinner and sat looking into his eyes in the hope of finding the answer, but he just pulled his phone out of his pocket and put it to his ear. “Harry” he said, standing up and walking over to the French windows.
“Mum, there’s a problem.”
I jumped when Josh came into the room. He looked at Harry, then back at me as if to say can you ask this loser to leave? Harry walked out into the hall saying “I know. I told you that yesterday. Get with the fucking programme already.” I looked anxiously at Josh but he didn’t seem to have heard.
“What kind of problem?” My instinct was to jump to the worst conclusion, that he’d made someone pregnant, that he was coughing up blood, that he was going to run away to the circus, or more likely, the RAF.
He sat down at the kitchen table, spreading out a few sheets of typed paper, forms with post-its attached. I sighed with relief. This didn’t look like a pregnancy situation at least.
“What is it?”
“It’s about my work experience. I need to find something. The deadline is tomorrow for handing the forms in. Mr Marshall says I’m the only one who hasn’t done it yet.”
“Is that all?” I felt the tension rush from my body and pulled out a chair next to him. “It has been on my mind, but no response so far from the usual places. I put something on Facebook and LinkedIn, but nothing came back.”
“I have asked a couple of friends at school. One of them has an uncle who might offer me something. He’s got a few going already but there might be a chance for me too.”
“Sounds good. So…?”
“It’s just that it’s not definite, and I need to put something down here.”
Harry must have been standing within earshot, because he came in just at the right moment.
“I’ve got something, Josh, if you’re interested?”
He looked up, taken aback, but smiled politely and said “what is it?”
Harry had two options to suggest. Either Josh could work with Mr Dawson senior on one of his projects in town, or he could ask Paul Rathbone who had an IT firm in Putney. He said Paul did this sort of thing all the time and was always on the lookout for good coders.
Josh was delighted. Computer science was his favourite thing, after warfare and Boost bars, and the sound of the job, when Harry explained it, was music to his ears.
“I’ll call him this afternoon. Should have an answer for you by tomorrow.”
And this became another thing I asked about every day, just like the Spain tickets, whether he had contacted Tabitha about the Dorset house in August, and whether there was any news on his missing laptop and wallet. Yes, the cards had been returned. No, he hadn’t replaced the Macbook yet, and in a tone of characteristic familiarity, he was "waiting to hear back from Tabs about the house". As for the airline tickets – they were booked – didn’t I trust him? I felt like a nag, like a nutter, muttering a chorus of reminders that I was on the brink of insanity.
Chapter 17
Anna
My birthday was the next one after Caro’s, and despite not being a multiple of ten, equally deserving of celebration. It was something we all did well, have parties, get drunk, dance until the early hours, and I wasn’t going to be the one to let the side down. By then I’d known Harry for a few weeks, in real life that is. Of course, to me it was more like six months and probably in some wild fantasy, the whole of my life. That’s what it felt like. But I’m just saying that I am aware that it was only three weeks since we’d met. I’m aware now anyway. It was the whirlwind of whirlwinds and my feet had barely touched the ground.
I spent the morning before the party on last minute beauty tasks and was having my toenails and fingernails painted simultaneously by some very accommodating therapists at my local salon, when Harry appeared in the doorway bearing gifts. The bouquet was stunning. Stargazers, delphiniums and pink roses, pussy willow and ferns exploded from brown paper tied with ribbon.
“Happy Birthday, gorgeous.”
The therapists were suitably impressed. Harry and his Eastenders-style gangster charm had made another conquest. Marta wanted to know all about him, how we met, whether I was in love… I prevaricated, realising I didn’t know, not only whether I loved him, but anything about him at all. Trusting him had become a daily challenge which I was finding harder and harder. She didn’t mind. She thought he was perrrrfect, and assured me I was just being careful, and that maybe that was a good thing. After all, you never knew.
The party was a blast. Anna surprised me by coming home from university, friends popped up from the distant past as well as neighbours from the present, and we danced our socks off. I introduced Harry to Maddie who had had the misfortune of seeing Craig kicking off on one of his jealous rages at one of her dinner parties. She was delighted with Craig’s sturdy replacement.
“He’s a keeper” were her exact words, brushing my uncertainty, once again, under a magic carpet of happiness.
The crew, led by Maya, presented me with a gift voucher for a 4 day countryside retreat, amid great fanfare, and the DJ struck up a jolly version of Happy Birthday followed by 500 miles, which had us all doing high kicks we’d feel the next morning in our hamstrings.
He drove us back to my house that night, having, he told me, avoided drinking too much at the event. I believed that because at one point I asked him to buy me a glass of wine and he said he didn’t have his wallet on him. So he couldn’t have drunk much. He had a few glasses when we got back though, and a beer the next day mid-morning followed by a bottle or so of wine over the rest of the day. I pointed out that other options were available, and he ridiculed me, saying everyone drinks all day on a Sunday, and I thought maybe they did. Perhaps I was the crazy one here.
It was about 8.15 on Sunday night when Maddie texted.
She wanted to come round to talk about Chris, and I knew Harry would be more than fine with my friend coming over, so I invited her round. She refused a drink, but Harry got on with more wine. At about 9.45, Anna rang from Leeds. Maddie and Harry were engaging in animated conversation, so I took the call and stepped into the garden to talk.
I am not proud of the kind of mother I was that weekend. Anna had come home for my party and gone back to Leeds less than forty-eight hours later. I had spent a total of half an hour talking to her on her own, my eldest daughter I hadn’t seen for five weeks, because Harry was there and I had woven him into my family so tightly that it was somehow good enough that when she got me, she got him too. She wasn’t ringing to complain about that though, or not specifically. She had a message from Sadie and Josh who were at that moment shut in their rooms doing their thing, which I had told myself was normal teenage behaviour.
The sun had set an hour or so before and the garden was in darkness, lit only by the streetlights of London that never allow us to experience total obscurity. From outside, the kitchen was lit up like a ship at sea. I remembered my father using that expression back in the day, with the subtext of I’m paying for all this electricity you know. He would never complain directly. He preferred the imagery route.
I stood on the small terrace and leant against the heavy glass-topped table that was too big for the tiny space it occupied. It was another vestige of divorce, a reminder of when our bulging bank accounts used to buy bigger and bulkier things than were strictly necessary: a five-bedroom house with a hundred foot garden, a Ford Galaxy, a nine-man tent for those middle class camping holidays in Cornwall where the kids skip around in mini-Boden beachwear and the adults feast on Prosecco and olives in the awnings. If I had been myself, the true me, I would have sold that garden furniture and got rid of the car, become a hippie eco-warrior with a dash of Druid, but here I was languishing in a dull London suburb, clinging to stuff that wasn’t me.
The Delusionist Page 11