by Adele Parks
Jake looked at her doubtfully but didn’t say anything other than, ‘I’m still OK with this Becks, thanks.’
Kirsten bought herself another double vodka, this time with Red Bull. Jake was probably right about her needing vitamin C but she needed to be flying more. As she threaded through the happy crowd, making her way back to Jake, she ignored the fact that the room was swaying ever so slightly. She sat down with a thud, temporarily forgetting the importance of floating elegantly, as if to suggest she was weightless, which was what she usually did around men. That seemed such an effort right now.
‘So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this invite?’ she asked. She didn’t see the point in beating around the bush.
‘We’re old uni buddies. What could be more natural than us meeting up for a drink and a catch-up?’
‘We weren’t really buddies,’ said Kirsten. She didn’t want to sound petulant, exactly, but she found she couldn’t stop herself, it was her default setting.
‘True. You didn’t talk to me that much when we were at uni,’ agreed Jake. ‘Which means this drink is overdue. Besides, I think you hang out with old dudes too much. They say a change is as good as a rest.’ Kirsten thought she probably ought to be offended but she had to admit, he might have a point. It was fun being in this bar populated by people with full heads of hair. ‘And, as I said earlier, I thought you could do with a friend,’ Jake added, carefully.
Here we go, thought Kirsten. Let’s get down to it. This is when he asks me if I want to go for dinner at a nearby hotel or (if he’s cutting corners) maybe straight back to his. Either way, it’s clear what’s on the menu – me.
‘I wondered whether you’d like someone to go with you to the hospital. I thought perhaps you were worrying about him but didn’t know how you could respectably visit,’ added Jake.
Kirsten’s mouth fell open. She’d realised that he had connected her to Jules, office bike and so on, that’s why they were here, but for one awful moment Kirsten thought he must have connected her to Tuesday evening too. Oh fuck. What would it take to shut him up? More than sex? Money? She didn’t have any money.
‘What do you want?’ she asked, terrified.
‘Nothing.’ He looked at her from under his fringe and then added, ‘To help. I think you’re an idiot to be seeing a married man. But as you are, I thought maybe, I mean, it can’t be easy, hearing everything secondhand. Not having a clue what’s going on or what happened to him.’
Oh thank God, he didn’t know! Not everything, at least. Kirsten allowed herself to breathe again. Not my fault, not my fault. She was so focused on repeating the mantra that she almost missed what Jake was saying next.
‘Being into someone you can’t have is very difficult.’ Jake – normally a confident, almost cocksure type – was mortified about having to make this speech but he couldn’t stop himself.
‘I’m not into him.’
‘Really?’ Jake looked delighted to hear it. Kirsten sighed, less thrilled with the confession.
‘Not in the way you mean.’ No, the fact was, she wasn’t in love with him. She never had been. She’d wanted him to leave his wife and kids, she’d wanted him to herself, she’d even wanted to marry him and to be the sole benefactor of his substantial income and considerable status but she was not in love with him. She’d needed him, or at least she needed someone, to pick up where her parents had left off. She didn’t want to be on her own, doubted she could be. What sort of person did that make her?
‘You’re not in love with Mark Deally, are you?’ Jake looked horrified.
‘No!’ Fuck, she hoped he wasn’t going to humiliate her and ask her if she was in love with Brian Ford or Alan Edwardson as well. She didn’t think she could stand the idea of beautiful Jake bringing those names into their evening. She knew he was probably here to get for himself a bit of what she so obviously spread around so easily but couldn’t they at least place a semblance of decorum on the proceedings? Would he insist on calling her on all her mistakes? Kirsten felt uncomfortably grubby. Suddenly she was feeling so many things she hadn’t felt before and none of them were very nice. She felt dirty and scared and sad and sorry. Really sorry. Oh God, was she about to cry? She could feel tears pricking the back of her eyes. She furiously blinked them back. The stupid, poxy hypno stuff clearly wasn’t working.
Despite her efforts, Jake noticed the tears welling. ‘I think you would feel better if you saw him. We can go to the hospital together, if you like. You’re less likely to draw attention to yourself if I’m there. People will just think we’re concerned colleagues. Probably take us for a couple, which will keep the heat away. I’ll call and find out about visiting hours.’
Maybe she should go and see Jules. Jake might be right, it might help her feel better if she saw him. It might put her mind at rest, a bit. In her mind Julian was really ill and once she saw him he might not be that bad. Besides, when he woke up, he might like to hear that she’d visited. It might help him feel decent towards her when he got better if he heard that she’d made the effort. She nodded.
Jake made a couple of calls on his mobile and then turned back to Kirsten who had at least managed to see off the threat of tears. ‘I think we’ll be too late if we set off now. Visiting hours finish at eight. Maybe we should go tomorrow.’
Kirsten smiled, relieved. Tomorrow was good. It wasn’t now, which was a huge advantage because it would be a schlep to the hospital and not what you’d call a pleasant trip. Besides, tomorrow meant they could finish their drinks, maybe go for a bite, even on to a club, she’d have to see how the night panned out. Anyway, she’d see Jake two nights in a row. Like a relationship. Not that she was saying she wanted a relationship with Jake but she could think of worse things. ‘OK.’
‘Yeah, you’ll look and feel better after a night’s sleep.’
‘Look better?’ asked Kirsten indignantly.
‘You know, stronger.’
‘A good night’s sleep?’
‘I’ll call you a cab.’
‘But—’
‘Don’t worry about the cost. I’ll put it on one of my job numbers. And maybe you should think of taking a day’s holiday tomorrow. I will too. We can go to the hospital in the afternoon. I’ll meet you at three, say, at Waterloo?’
Jake called for a company cab and before Kirsten could say Kurt Geiger she found herself bundled into a car without so much as a chaste kiss on the cheek. It was really, really frustrating that he was taking over everything and bossing her about and not even making a move! Really frustrating.
And a little bit lovely.
44
As Jake watched the cab disappear round the corner he thought that he was pretty sure that Kirsten was the sort of girl his grandmother would describe as ‘no better than she ought to be’ and the sort of girl his mother had had nightmares about him bringing home since he was about five years old and came home with a stray puppy that turned out to be not only flea-ridden but ferocious too and had snarled at his baby brothers. On the other hand, his father would be delighted as she was a particular pleasure to look at.
Jake set off towards the tube station, enjoying the warm evening stroll. He could not believe Kirsten was as bad as she tried to appear, as bad as she clearly considered herself to be. Not deep down. No, she had to be better than that, or at least, she might be able to be better than that, given a chance. Jake wanted to give her a chance. Another chance.
Like most men at Thames Valley University, Jake had noticed Kirsten during fresher week; she was hard to miss. He’d tried to strike up a conversation with her on a number of occasions but, frankly, she’d never seemed interested. He’d asked around, and it was generally agreed that she was more than a bit spoilt. The other girls on Kirsten’s course, who appeared to live to gossip about Kirsten, insinuated that she had a daddy complex and was, unfortunately, drawn to older, wealthier guys. They seemed to think it was a result of her father’s behaviour; apparently he bounced between obscenely indulging her
and practically ignoring her and never quite hit the note that would prove he simply valued her. Jake was lucky enough to have doting, firm but fair parents. He’d been brought up to value himself and look for the value in others.
It was stupid of Kirsten to get mixed up with Julian Blake – fact. But you don’t choose who you fall for. He knew that much. It was true that she had a tendency towards the caustic but that was possibly because she hadn’t found anyone she could be sweet about, yet. Maybe he could help with that. Jake was bursting with a particular brand of idealism and heroism that tended to be the preserve of the young, a little like a desire and an ability to stay up all night to watch back-to-back episodes of The Wire. Older people may have the desire but lacked the staying power. Jake liked a challenge and there was no doubt that she’d be that.
He really was sort of into her.
45
Once again, all three boys snuggled up in Steph and Julian’s bed, despite Harry’s cross grumbles that, last night, Alfie had been unable to stay put in his designated part of the bed.
‘He kept flinging his arms and legs over my side,’ moaned the eldest boy, indignantly. ‘It’s like sleeping with an elephant-sized, zombie mud wrestler. He woke me up at least twice.’
‘You can always sleep in your own bed, if you want to,’ pointed out Steph gently.
‘No, better not. I think they like me in there,’ whispered Harry confidentially, as he quickly scampered after his younger brothers who were already in their parents’ room. He leapt into bed without any more discussion. The fact was they all needed to feel the weight of their siblings’ arms and legs, breath and cuddles, even if that meant disturbed sleep. Steph lay down next to them, waiting for them to drop off.
Freddie, who was simply happy to have his mum home again, popped his thumb in his mouth and fell asleep quickly. He was the only thumb-sucker of the three. The other two had sucked dummies for a short spell but had easily been persuaded to give them up. Steph knew that she had to convince Freddie to break the habit, he was five years old, but she never could bring herself to scold him because he looked so adorable with his thumb in his mouth. Adorable and endearing and a little bit vulnerable, he put her in mind of one of Peter Pan’s lost boys and no one could scold a lost boy.
Harry and Alfie didn’t find it as easy to settle to sleep. They repeatedly asked when Julian would be home. Steph walked a fine line of optimism and realism. She told her boys that their daddy would probably take a long time to get well. She did not allow the fearful thought, that he might not get well, bubble out of her mouth.
‘Shall I read to you?’
‘Yes.’
She read three chapters of a rather scary child-spy book which encouraged the boys to liveliness, rather than helped them drift into sleep. So they then played long rounds of the memory game, ‘I went to the shop and bought . . .’ A game that Harry usually dismissed as childish and beneath his dignity, tonight he fell in with the suggestion. Anything rather than face his nightmares or, worse, stare at the ceiling for hours. Alfie fell asleep as he was ‘buying’ risotto, strawberries and tapioca, at about 9 p.m.
‘I think I win,’ yawned Harry.
‘Yes, darling, you do,’ said Steph, stealing the opportunity to plant a rare kiss on the forehead of her eleven year old.
‘I always do,’ he added proudly.
‘Yes, darling, you do,’ agreed Steph, astounded that even at a time like this her sons were competitive. ‘But you are the oldest,’ she reminded him.
‘I don’t think you should have allowed fruit for f. Alfie should have had to come up with something different,’ he mumbled sleepily.
‘I felt like being lenient,’ murmured Steph. Harry allowed her to curl her body around his as he lay on his side, wrapped around Alfie, who in turn held fast on to Freddie. ‘Besides, I couldn’t think of anything that began with an f.’
‘Fromage frais, foie gras, fondue, frogs legs,’ Harry suggested with another yawn and a hint of superiority. Steph wondered whether her son’s food choices (or his hint of superiority) reflected well on her. She remembered back to their last holiday in France where she had been quite insistent that the children tried the local cuisine. As the boys had struggled with raw meats and smelly cheeses, Pip had allowed Chloe to exist on a diet of French fries and crêpes, which she argued were also local cuisine. Of course the boys had hated Steph for her rule. Every mealtime had been like a cold war. Steph now wondered why she’d ever cared, was it worth the struggle? She was unsure. High standards were so uncomfortable and alienating.
‘Fish fingers, fudge, Frosties,’ she added trying for a bit of late-in-the-day balance.
‘Imagine if you had a day where you could only eat food beginning with one letter,’ mused Harry, as he fought sleep.
‘Which letter would you pick?’
He thought about it for a while. ‘C. Chocolate, cherries, croissants, cake, crisps. Cashew nuts. Do cashew nuts count?’
‘Definitely,’ said Steph as she knew her eldest loved cashew nuts, especially the honey-roasted variety. She often threw them into salads to make carrots and celery more palatable. Steph wondered whether, when this was all over and Julian was home (please, please), they might have such a day. A day when they ate nothing but food beginning with the letter C. It seemed so impossibly careless. So unlike anything they ever did as a family.
Harry finally fell asleep after mumbling, ‘Coco Pops.’ They lay nested like Russian matryoshka dolls, except, thought Steph, generally matryoshka dolls came in sets of five.
The warmth and comfort of her sons’ bodies and her sheer exhaustion, after days of scarcely any sleep, finally won through and Steph fell asleep almost the moment Harry did. When she woke up it was pitch black outside. The sound of her father coughing in his sleep had woken her. She wished it hadn’t because the moment she was awake she knew she would not fall back to sleep again. Her first thought was that she wanted to go back to the hospital to be near Julian. She’d only been persuaded to leave his side because her mother had insisted the boys needed her too and Julian’s father had taken a room in a nearby hotel and his brother, James, had arrived from Canada and was now sitting vigil. He’d promised to call Steph if there was the slightest change. Bleary-eyed, Steph felt around the bedside table for her phone. There were three text messages. They were all from Subhash, two words: ‘You OK?’ She deleted the records and checked the time, it was only almost midnight, witching hour, she’d thought it was later. Carefully, she edged out of the bed and then slipped downstairs to make a cup of chamomile tea.
Having longed to be home she was now surprised to find that her home seemed alien. After two days and a night at the hospital she had become accustomed to the constant muffled hustle and bustle of the ward staff and the whirr of the machines that were keeping her husband alive. Her house seemed so deathly silent by comparison, and distant. Distant from Julian, who was distant from everyone. Who had been distant from her even before this. Steph sighed. The house was alien because her husband had another woman.
Steph put the kettle on and while the water boiled she retrieved Julian’s mobile phone. Her fingers were so icy that it was difficult for her to open the menu and find the messages icon and open the inbox. The words, so vile and wild and erotic, tore at her heart once again. She had to develop the self-control to stop looking at the messages, it wasn’t helping matters. She snapped the phone closed, she needed some chamomile tea.
What was this woman thinking now? Was she wondering where Julian was? What had happened to her last Tuesday? Had she turned up at the hotel and gone to the room? Had she lain, scantily clad, waiting for him? At what time had his mistress given up expecting him? Stephanie assumed that waiting around was part of the deal for a mistress. No dirty socks to wash but no expectation that you could depend on appointments.
Steph’s phone vibrated and caused her to leap. She checked the caller ID, hoping and dreading that it was the hospital, imagining it might be Subhash and find
ing it was Pip.
‘Hi.’
‘I’m outside. I didn’t want to ring the bell, in case I disturbed the kids. I didn’t imagine you’d be sleeping. Can you let me in?’
Steph hurried to the front door and opened it to her friend. Cool night air flew through the house. Steph shivered and pulled her dressing gown tightly around her. Pip must be freezing too as she was shaking like a leaf. Steph barely recognised her; she looked thinner than she’d looked this morning, certainly more gaunt and withered.
‘Robbie said to me that you might not have knocked down Julian but you might be having an affair,’ garbled Pip. Steph heard the sentence clearly enough but it seemed to punch her in the head, leaving her dazed. ‘I told him that was stupid. You are the last person in the world who would have an affair but then I began to wonder.’ Steph could hear panic and confusion in Pip’s voice and see turmoil in her face. ‘Are you, Steph? I began to think that might make sense. That might be something you wouldn’t want to tell me.’
Steph took a deep breath. She wouldn’t lie to Pip. Her relationship with Subhash was not anything she’d ever wanted to have to confess to, let alone discuss and dissect, but she would not lie to Pip. Maybe offering up the explanation might be a help – to them both.
‘Yes, your Robbie has got it this time,’ said Steph, with an irritated emphasis on the man’s name. Who the hell was this Robbie anyway? She’d never even met him and yet he knew more about her than her own mother did. Steph didn’t like it. ‘Quite the detective, isn’t he? Come into the kitchen. I’ll pour you a cup of chamomile. I don’t know if it does any good but I’m drinking it by the gallon.’
Pip followed Steph into the kitchen. She took one look at the herb tea and shook her head. It looked horribly like urine and that put her in mind of Julian’s catheter.
‘Anything stronger?’ she asked.
‘Coffee,’ deadpanned Steph. She didn’t want what she had to say tonight to be further confused by alcohol consumption.