The Bench

by Saskia Sarginson

  He hails a black cab, and we bundle inside. Panic races through my veins, but at my centre it feels right, going home with him. We hold hands all the way, without speaking.

  The cab pulls up outside an elegant flat-fronted Georgian house. I stare at it while he pays the driver. Inside, I have a vague notion of luxurious fabrics, recessed switches and down-lighting. There are hardly any personal touches. It’s more like a hotel than a home. Now that we’re here, he seems nervous. ‘Do you want a drink … or anything?’

  ‘No. Thanks.’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  Small puddles are forming around our feet. I shake my head. Being with him after so long, I just want to bury myself inside him, speak to him with touch. Slowly I begin to undo the buttons of my sodden coat. He watches as I shuck it from my shoulders, letting it drop onto the parquet. My pulse is bumping in my ears as I yank my sweater over my head. My fingers move to the zipper of my jeans. He makes a small noise in the back of his throat and grabs my hand.

  ‘Upstairs,’ he manages, as he pulls me towards the stairs. On the first floor, he turns a door handle. He’s ripping off his shirt. A button pings onto the carpet. My fingers fumble with hooks and fastenings; I bend to pull off my socks. The world has shrunk to this – the two of us getting naked in a room. My skin is alive with yearning, my stomach a knot of nerves and need. A trail of dropped clothes leads to the bed. He gets his foot caught inside one leg of his jeans, and hops, arms flailing, before he crashes over the mattress. He manages to extricate his foot, holds out his arms to me.

  It’s the first time we’ve seen each other naked since Atlantic City, the first time we’ve been in a bed together since that night in the hotel. All the years in between haven’t taken away our familiarity. My body knows his body. There are small changes, and I explore these with my eyes and fingers and mouth. His chest is a little broader, the muscles in his arms feel denser, less sinewy, his neck thicker. The few hairs on his chest have multiplied. I can tell he’s making similar discoveries in me. Although I’ve stopped the fertility drugs, my belly is still swollen. He runs his fingers over it tenderly, then takes my face between his hands and looks into my eyes. ‘I don’t know how you do it – this thing you do without trying,’ he says. ‘But I’m only me when I’m with you.’

  He holds himself above me, and moves purposefully downwards, kissing my throat, collarbone, breasts, stomach, my scar, hip hollows, pubis. I tangle my fingers in his hair and close my eyes.

  We lie in the big bed, tightly wrapped around each other, my head on his shoulder. His chest moves up and down in a steady rhythm under my cheek. He hasn’t pulled the drapes. It’s stopped raining, and a shaft of winter sunlight makes me screw up my eyes. The sun fades as cloud shadows trail darkness over the roofs of the houses opposite, and a chill settles on my skin. Cramp stabs at my calves.

  ‘What’s the time?’ I mumble.

  He picks up a heavy silver watch from the bedside table and squints at it. ‘It’s only been a couple of hours. Don’t leave yet. What’s going on? Why the note – why are we here?’

  I wiggle my toes, trying to shift the cramp. I’m shivering, and he rubs my arm, tucks the duvet tighter over my shoulder.

  ‘Cat?’

  The truth is simple. Selfish. I wanted to see him because I was miserable. It was pure blind need that made me send the note. But now I realise he might think I’m leaving Leo.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I tell him. ‘I’m sorry for making you come.’

  ‘I don’t understand. What’s going on?’ He turns to look into my face. ‘You’re not pregnant?’

  I shake my head. ‘I can’t get pregnant. We’ve been trying IVF. It didn’t work.’ I feel a sob push into my throat. ‘It’s shit, the whole process … invasive, uncomfortable, undignified. And every time they put those embryos in you, you can’t help hoping … then it fails and you feel it’s your fault – that you’re the failure.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says quietly. ‘So now what?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I push my face into his neck. ‘I’m tired of it all – the injections and procedures and tests – and I don’t even think …’ I fight to control my voice, ‘I don’t think I want a baby any more.’

  ‘If it’s not right, then don’t do it,’ he says.

  ‘I worry about Grace,’ I say. ‘She’s an only child. She was really excited. She wanted a sister. I’ve failed her. I’ve failed Leo.’

  He rubs my shoulder. ‘It’s not your fault,’ he whispers, tightening his fingers against me.

  I look at the clouds, darkening and moving faster across the rooftops.

  ‘If Leo loves you,’ Sam says slowly, ‘then he’ll understand. He won’t want you to go through any more medical stuff – he’ll respect your decision.’

  I wish I believed that.

  ‘I don’t know anything about him,’ Sam’s saying. ‘I realised that a while ago. I never even asked you what he does for a living.’

  ‘He’s a surgeon, an eye surgeon.’

  There’s a pause, and I hear him swallow. ‘An eye surgeon?’ He sits up beside me. ‘Where did you meet him?’

  ‘In Atlantic City,’ I tell him. ‘I met him when I was helping at that funeral – the one you came along to afterwards, remember? It was his wife, Elizabeth, we were burying. I helped out with Grace. Then something he said made me realise they were looking for a nanny, and when you didn’t write, I asked for the job.’

  Sam is running his fingers through his hair, raking his nails over his scalp. ‘Hang on. You’re married to him? That man?’ He pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes. ‘But I met him later, in London … He operated on my brother. Saved the sight in one of his eyes.’

  ‘That’s … that’s weird.’ I put a hand on Sam’s forearm, the twist of muscle. ‘So you saw him at the hospital and recognised him?’

  ‘Not at first. Later.’ He lets his breath out in a long whoosh of air. ‘When I got home, I remembered who he was. But I had no idea that …’ he breaks off, ‘that he was going back to you.’ He shakes his head. ‘I didn’t know at that point that you were even in London.’ His voice is jerky. Hoarse.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  He clears his throat and nods. ‘It’s just a … shock. I can’t believe I didn’t know who he was …’

  ‘Does it make such a big difference?’

  ‘I’ve got this image of his face in the hospital as he walked past me. Earnest and busy. And kind.’

  ‘I never said he was a monster.’ I let my fingers slide away from his forearm, then slip out of bed, pick up my knickers and step into them. I find my bra, put it on backwards and fasten it, turn it around the right way and push my arms through the straps. ‘He’s a good surgeon. He makes a difference to people’s lives.’

  Sam is out of bed, and his arms are around me. ‘Don’t leave,’ he’s saying. ‘I needed to know who he was. And now I do. It doesn’t change how I feel about you. It just makes everything seem … even harder.’ He breathes into my hair. ‘I love you, Cat.’

  ‘I love you too.’ I bend down to pick up my jeans. ‘And this … thing, this love we have, it makes me feel like crap most of the time.’

  ‘You’re leaving again?’ Sam says. ‘After … this.’ He waves towards the crumpled bed. ‘What, so that’s it?’ His voice hardens. ‘You needed a shoulder to cry on, and now you’re done?’

  ‘It’s not like that,’ I say. ‘I miss you. It’s like being permanently homesick. I stop myself from doing anything about it. But I had a moment of weakness. The IVF didn’t work. Years of struggle have ended in this sad little full stop … and now the only chance is to have an operation. Except I don’t want one. We have Grace. She’s more than enough for me. But I seem to be on this … this baby-making conveyor belt, and I want to get off. And the person I wanted to talk to about it was you – even though that doesn’t make sense.’ I stop, breathing deeply. ‘Nothing makes sense. Everything’s back-to-front, because … because
if I were able to have a child, I’d want it to be yours.’

  He says nothing, hanging his head. ‘My dad died,’ he says quietly. ‘And I couldn’t tell you. You’re the only person I want to speak to most of the time. My life is going past and you’re not there to share it with – not even as a voice on the phone.’

  Grief sits hard and heavy and familiar in my belly. ‘I’m sorry about your dad,’ I say. ‘I … I wish I’d been there for you. I should never have sent you that note.’

  ‘Remember when we talked about what would have happened if we’d stayed together? And you said the domestic details – the ordinary things – might have finished us? Well, I want ordinary with you, Cat. I want humdrum. I want to see you every morning with puffy eyes and dirty hair. I want to pick up your socks, listen to you moan. I want to look after you when you’re feeling ill.’ He doesn’t look away from me. ‘I want you to meet Mattie and George. I want to take you out to dinner. Have you there at a gig, so I can smile at you in the wings and see you smiling back. I want to go into a bookshop with you and buy one of your books and tell the person behind the till: look, this woman beside me, she’s the author.’

  I shake my head. ‘Stop …’ Tears jam in my throat.

  ‘Tell me we can be together. One day.’ His voice trembles. ‘Jesus, Cat. Tell me it’ll happen.’ He grasps my arms above the elbows and makes me look at him. ‘Tell me there’s some hope. Give me that, at least.’

  My gaze tries to veer away from his; his eyes sear right through me. I hold steady. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t … I can’t promise anything.’

  I should never have asked him to meet me. I should never have gone to his house. It wasn’t fair on any of us. I’m making mistakes. Most days I just feel stunned, kind of numb, as if I’ve been doped, or hit on the head.

  Dougie asks to meet me for a coffee. When we’re sitting down, he pushes a folded-up newspaper across the table. In the gossip pages, there it is, a blurry photo of me leaving Sam’s house, and Sam in the doorway without his shirt. Ex-Lambs lead singer Sam Sage and mystery girlfriend, the caption reads. I drop the paper like the words are written in acid. I want to get up, run, keep running.

  Dougie tells me not to panic, that nobody will recognise me. My head is turned away in the picture. He only knows because of what I told him before. He leans close and asks if I’m seeing him – if we’re having an affair.

  I feel sick at the thought of other people’s speculation; it makes what we have seem sordid and wrong. Only I can’t stop re-imagining that afternoon in his bed, reliving the seconds, the moments, the way he touched me, the way I felt in his arms, just like I used to – that feeling of being at home. I gave him hope and then took it away. How can he forgive me?

  FORTY-FOUR

  Sam, September 1994

  Her smell faded after a few days. Even when he pressed his face deep into the pillow and inhaled. It’s a long time now since Cat was in Sam’s bed. He was angry and hurt after she left, confused that she’d asked for him then walked away. But later, he realised how difficult it would be for her to leave a family, a child. He thinks about her gambling father, how they continually moved from one city to the next, and how precious a real home must be, how hard to destroy it.

  When Ben calls and says he has tickets for a new show in the West End, Sam says to count him in. He accepts most invitations that come his way. Or he walks around the corner to spend the evening with Mattie, helping River with his homework, sitting at their kitchen table.

  He arrives at the crowded foyer of the Prince Edward in Soho with five minutes to spare. He squeezes past backs and elbows to get to Ben and his wife Boo. ‘This is Janie,’ Ben says. ‘A friend of Boo’s.’

  A petite woman holds out a bejewelled hand. Sam takes it, and gives her a polite smile. Her bones feel fragile inside his grip. Several large rings bite into his palm. A bob of shining black hair swings in perfect symmetry at the line of her pale collarbone.

  Sam turns to Ben and gives him a meaningful stare. He’s asked him not to arrange blind dates. All his friends do it. None of them, except Mattie and George, know about Cat.

  In his Armani jacket, Ben looks very different from the skinny punk living in the Brixton squat. He’s an estate agent now. He always had a practical self-interest, a chameleon-like ability. He and Boo live in a five-bedroom house in Clapham with their twin boys. They laugh about their punk days.

  Janie tells Sam she works as a finance director for an IT company. He struggles to think of suitable questions. He’s relieved when the warning bell summons them to their seats. He’ll make his excuses straight after the show, slip away home.

  ‘This was a big hit on Broadway last year,’ Boo is telling them as they settle in the plush red splendour of the stalls. ‘I love Gershwin,’ she adds.

  In the interval, Janie murmurs, ‘I hate musicals. But when Boo said you were coming, I wanted to meet you.’ She touches his sleeve with red-tipped fingers. ‘I admire your music. The stuff you’re doing now especially.’

  Sam’s mouth is dry. He’s furious with Ben for putting him in this situation. He waits for her to remove her hand, then shifts his weight back onto his heels. ‘Thanks,’ he says vaguely.

  When Janie and Boo disappear into the ladies’, heads together, Ben gives Sam a glass of wine. ‘She’s a bit of a babe, don’t you think?’ he says. ‘She earns a fucking fortune, but get this, she works as a Samaritan in her spare time. She’s been to your gigs. She was very keen to meet you.’

  ‘I asked you not to do this,’ Sam says.

  Ben grins. ‘Come on, mate. Everyone’s wondering when you’re going to settle down. I saw that photo in the paper last year. Your mystery girlfriend. How come we never met her? Was she a hooker? No shame in that. But people want to see you … happy.’

  ‘Trust me, there’s more to care about in this world than my love life. Janie seems like a nice person. But she’s not for me.’ Sam glances away, finishes his wine in one long swig and goes to the bar. ‘Same again,’ he says.

  Sam groans. His throat is parched, his mouth tacky. Cardamom and garlic, alcohol and sweat seep from his pores. There’s an unfamiliar perfume too, on his skin, on the sheets. Black hair fans across the pillow next to him. Janie turns over, yawning. Sam keeps very still, as if she might not notice him.

  ‘Morning,’ she says, their faces inches apart. She grins.

  ‘Hi,’ he says, shuffling back and pushing up onto one elbow. ‘Um. Yeah. Morning.’

  She stretches. ‘I’m starving. Do you have any food here? Or shall we go out and grab a croissant and coffee somewhere?’

  ‘Actually,’ he licks dry lips, ‘it’s pretty late, and I’ve got … stuff to do.’ He sits up. ‘I should really get going … sorry.’

  ‘Oh.’ The smile fades from her mouth. ‘No. Of course. I should too. Get going.’ She sits up, tugging the sheet around her narrow torso, her small breasts.

  Sam blinks. He has little memory of what happened last night. An Indian meal. A lot of wine. Ben offered him a bump of snow in the lavatory. Then somehow he ended up in Islington with Janie. They had sex. The smell is everywhere, clinging like a stain. Janie’s perfect hair is mussed, flyaway strands standing up over the crown of her head. He feels like a shit.

  ‘Look,’ he says. ‘I really am sorry. This shouldn’t have happened.’

  ‘Why not?’ she asks, raising her pointed chin.

  ‘Because I’m in love with someone else.’

  ‘Oh …’ She shifts further away from him. ‘Who?’

  ‘Someone I’ve known for a very long time. She’s married.’

  She raises an eyebrow.

  ‘I know.’ He shrugs. ‘A cliché, right? I’m an idiot. Or a bastard. Or both.’ He pushes at his eyebrows, stretching them upwards. ‘I shouldn’t have told you. But I wanted to be honest.’

  Janie doesn’t say anything for a moment. She rubs her knuckles, twists her rings around her fingers. ‘Thanks, I suppose. For explaining.’ She shuff
les over to the side of the bed and wraps the satin bedcover around her. ‘I can’t say I don’t feel a bit of an idiot myself, but … I don’t regret it.’

  Her understanding makes Sam feel worse. He waves a hand towards the bathroom. ‘Have a shower. Take your time. I don’t have any food in the house, but I do have a stupidly expensive Italian espresso machine, if you want a shot of caffeine.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll just get going.’ She takes small steps around the room picking up items of clothing with difficulty, hooking silky red things, a pair of strappy high heels. She turns at the door to the bathroom, clothes clutched to her chest. ‘You are a bastard, by the way. But I won’t say anything to anyone.’ She swallows. ‘About what you told me.’

  Sam sits with his arms wrapped around his knees.

  ‘Actually,’ she says, ‘I feel sorry for you.’ And she disappears into the bathroom.

  *

  After Janie has left, he downs a strong espresso and pushes his feet into his old trainers. Ignoring his thumping head, he leaves the house and runs through the streets, finding his pace as he lopes along the long drag of Holloway, under scruffy autumnal trees, and then through a brief green space. He pants and struggles up the elegant hills of Highgate, the burning in his legs like a fire in his veins. He sees the gate to the Heath and sprints through. Running to the top of Parliament Hill, he staggers to a halt, his hands on his knees, gasping for breath. You’re hurting other people and you’re wasting your life, he tells himself. So what are you going to do about it?

  It has to be more than words this time, he admonishes himself. Letting her go has to come from the very centre. Like the forgiveness he eventually felt for his father, it can’t be forced. Can he somehow find a way to leave his love for her behind? He wipes his sweating brow with the edge of his T-shirt. Perhaps if he saw her with Leo and the child … who, he supposes hazily, must be a teenager now … if he saw them together as a family, perhaps it would make him understand her real life properly. He doesn’t have a clue who she is in that other world. He’s completely shut out. Seeing her being a mother, a wife, might mean he could finally give up hope.