What Now?

by Low, Shari

  My heart was drowning out the roar of the wind now. Before he could say anything, I blurted out, ‘Sam, please forget I said anything. I’m tired. Emotional. It’s been a heavy couple of days.’

  For a moment, I thought I’d pissed him off beyond repair, but he reached over and took my hand. ‘Kate told me what happened with Hannah and about the video you watched and about going to the bridge. I’m glad you got some kind of resolution. You’ve had me worried for a while.’

  That wasn’t news. Since Sarah died, he’d been the soothing voice and the wide shoulder on the other end of the phone more times than I could count.

  My hand tightened a little more around his. ‘I’m sorry, Sam. I was a mess and I was so grateful for your friendship. I always will be,’ I told him. Deep and meaningful declarations weren’t usually our thing, but it suddenly seemed important to let him know how much he meant to me. ‘To be honest, I haven’t really had the chance to process everything that happened in New York. I think I need some time just to adjust to a different story from the one I’ve been telling myself all this time.’ I didn’t add that maybe I was referring to more than just my guilt over Sarah and Nick. Maybe I’d been telling myself an inaccurate story about my marriage too.

  He nodded. ‘I get it. You could always stay in your LA holiday home for a bit longer. It’s perfect for emotional trauma and navel-gazing.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, laughing. ‘But you know… all that luxury and having things done for me would wear thin after a while.’

  ‘You’re right. It’s all kinds of hell,’ he jested, before going on. ‘Mark and the boys stopping by was pretty cool.’ There was a slight question in there somewhere, but I ignored it.

  ‘I can’t tell you how good it was to see the boys. They’re just all kinds of freaking awesome, they really are. Remind me I said that next time I’m moaning about them.’

  He returned his hand to the wheel as he changed lanes, so he could veer right on the 10 as it transitioned on to the PCH. On the left, I could see the Ferris wheel and the roller coaster on the Santa Monica pier. When the boys were small, and I’d brought them here on my failed attempt to crack the movie industry, we used to go to Mother’s Beach in Marina Del Rey most days, and on the way back to Sam’s house in the evenings, they’d beg me to stop here so they could play on the pier for a while. I usually gave in, their joy like a transfusion for the soul. Even now, it was one of my favourite memories, one I’d bring out when my faith in life was running low.

  I shook off the melancholy. Five more minutes and we’d be home… Hang on, not my home. Sam’s house. Sleep deprivation and all this turmoil must be muddling my brain.

  I was so distracted by the memories that I almost lost track of what we were talking about. The boys. How great it was that they’d come to visit me in New York.

  Sam took my hand again. ‘And good to see Mark too?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t know. Yes, it was, I think. But it was just… a lot.’

  ‘How are those decisiveness classes coming along?’ he teased, but there was a tightness I didn’t recognise in his voice.

  ‘He wants to call off the divorce and get back together.’

  I heard a sigh, but I didn’t pick him up on it. It was understandable. There was history there. When Mark and I had been at breaking point years ago and Sam had asked me to stay with him, to start a new life with him and the kids in LA, I’d almost done it. Almost. But in the end, I’d gone back to Mark because he was the boys’ dad and because I loved him. He was my always. And maybe he still was.

  ‘What did you say to that?’ Sam asked. ‘Is that what you want?’

  ‘I don’t know. I told him I needed some time. It’s… complicated.’

  ‘It’s always complication with you, Cooper.’

  ‘I know. It’s a curse,’ I joked, trying to lighten things up a little as we turned off the PCH and began the climb to the Palisades. ‘I think that after Sarah died, I just didn’t feel that I had the right to be happy. Don’t get me wrong, Mark and I had problems, but I detonated my marriage, my life… everything. I was so wrapped up in grief that I could barely breathe. If that hadn’t happened… I don’t know.’ I paused. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think it’s up to you.’

  I let his hand go so I could punch his arm. ‘Sam Morton, that is such a cop-out. Why are you so shy about giving an opinion all of a sudden? You usually have loads of them.’

  He indicated to turn into his street. ‘Because I don’t want to be an asshole.’

  ‘You won’t be. I’m asking your opinion. Just like you asked mine earlier.’

  ‘Look how great that turned out,’ he quipped, oozing sarcasm again.

  Sam’s gates opened as we approached them, and he swung the Jeep around and stopped outside the front door. I thought he was going to stay put, to finish the conversation, but instead, he jumped out and reached into the back seat for my case.

  I was already out of the car when he got to my side, and for the first time since the conversation began, we were face to face.

  ‘I want to know what you think,’ I told him. ‘It’s important to me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it just is. What’s your problem?’

  Aaaargh, why did he bring out the worst in me? I knew I sounded like a stroppy cow, but it felt like the atmosphere had shifted, like I needed to challenge him in some way that I couldn’t explain.

  In return, he seemed irritated and for a moment I thought he was going to dodge the question again.

  ‘Okay, fine,’ he snapped back. I brought out the worst in him too. ‘I’ll tell you my problem. Last time Mark asked you to go back to him, you went. And how did that work out for you?’

  27

  London, July 2010

  Clown – Emile Sande

  ‘What day is it today, baby boy?’ I asked my seven-year-old, Mac, as I woke him up with a torrent of tickles that made him shriek.

  ‘Christmas!’ he squealed.

  I stopped, feigning irritated despair. ‘Christmas? It’s July! You always have to steal the joy, don’t you?’

  That made him giggle even more. It was one of our standing jokes. If he went for Christmas, everything else was an anticlimax.

  Before I could chide him further for making fun of his mother, I felt a weight crush down on my back. Five-year-old Benny had escaped his bed and climbed on me, his arms crushing my oesophagus, but I didn’t care. This was my favourite part of the day, the first moments of the morning with my boys. Mac was always up to mischief that would make me laugh, and Benny always had a smile that would melt my heart.

  I moved the party downstairs, Benny still on my back, Mac rolling himself down each step like a stuntman, then stopping at the half landing to check for mutant zombies that could be lurking around any corner. Just another normal morning in Chiswick. I really had to stop him watching Power Rangers.

  They both climbed onto chairs at the kitchen table, then poured their cereal and milk, while I sliced up bananas and spread it on their toast. Breakfast was usually some combination of fruit, cereal, yoghurt and toast, mostly because if I gave them free choice, Benny would have prawn cocktail crisps and Mac would have a family-size pack of Milky Ways and a Mint Magnum.

  ‘You still haven’t guessed what day it is today,’ I said, slightly miffed that Mark hadn’t already prepped them.

  Benny’s spoon stopped halfway to his mouth. ‘Is Ronald McDonald coming for a play date?’

  Sometimes, I wasn’t sure if we were living in the same world, but I appreciated his imagination, so I let it pass. ‘No, he’s at chicken nugget school today. Any other guesses?’

  The back door opened, and Mark came in from his morning jog. I was kind of hoping that he’d give it a miss today, but he’d got up at six and headed out as normal – 5 a.m. on weekdays, 6 a.m. at the weekend. He grabbed the towel he always left at the door for his return. It was the kind of detail he was good on – anything to do with his dai
ly routine, his job, our long-term future. He was a man who was already paying more into his pension than anyone I knew. I was just hoping I made it to retirement age with a job.

  ‘Hey, babe,’ he said, kissing the top of my head, and then, ‘Morning, boys.’

  Benny and Mac gave him their very best grins as he kissed them both, then stole a piece of Mac’s banana to riotous objections.

  I waited for some comment about the significance of today. And waited. And then waited some more. Nope, nothing. And Benny and Mac both had the attention spans of custard, so they’d completely forgotten that I’d asked them anything.

  Was this all part of some elaborate prank? You know, that one where everyone acts like they’ve forgotten an important occasion, until the poor victim is on the brink of madness, then they all jump out and shout ‘Surprise’?

  Mark went off for a shower and I poured another coffee, my bubble of excitement definitely popped. I sat with the boys and dissected the merits of Hong Kong Phooey versus Top Cat. It was the kind of highbrow current affairs debate that expanded my mind.

  ‘Can we go to the park today, Mum? Can we, can we, can we?’

  I wondered if Mac would ever get out of the whole repetition thing, because it was definitely going to cause raised eyebrows in the corporate boardrooms of life when he was older. Although, he was already convinced that he was going to be a racing driver or a pizza delivery guy, so I might be worrying unnecessarily.

  I’d made no plans because I was sure Mark would have today covered. He would. Definitely.

  ‘We’ll see, sweetheart. I’m not sure what we’ll be doing yet.’

  ‘Can we go and see Charlie and Toni?’ Benny asked, spraying banana. His cousins were four years older than him, and they treated him like a living doll – feeding him, giving him drinks, playing with him for hours. He didn’t even mind that they’d dressed him in a furry yellow jumper and called him Winnie the Pooh all last weekend.

  There was a thud from the hall and one from my heart straight afterwards. Bugger! I’d been standing by the letter box every morning this week to make sure that I was first to check the mail. I was about to commando-crawl out to the hall to retrieve the package, when Mark walked back in holding it. He was also dressed for the office. On a Saturday. I’m not sure which of those bothered me most.

  ‘Letter for you,’ he said, holding out the A4-size manila envelope. There was a question in his tone, but I brushed it off.

  ‘Oh. That’s the… eh… lingerie catalogue I ordered,’ I told him, proud of coming up with a way to kill the conversation stone dead. Other men loved the whole sexy underwear vibe, but it had never been Mark’s thing. He’d made a token effort with a few sexy camis for Valentine’s days, but they were a couple of sizes too large (yep, that somewhat spoiled the moment) and still in the back of my drawer. They’d come in handy if I ever required a wind sock to check the weather conditions. ‘Are you going into the office?’ I said, unable to hide my amused intrigue. This definitely must be a joke. It had to be. There was no way he’d forgotten.

  ‘Yeah, we’re debriefing after the pitch for the Regen Corp case yesterday. All the partners want a full rundown on the meeting.’

  ‘Oh.’ My stomach flipped. The biggest pitch of Mark’s career. The one that, if it came in, would also deliver the partnership he’d aspired to and worked towards since he qualified. And the one that would almost certainly consign my dreams to the big wheelie bin of life.

  He pulled on his suit jacket. ‘You two be good for Mum, okay? I love you,’ he kissed them both and I melted a little inside. He was a good man, Mark Barwick. He loved me, loved his boys. Even if he was a complete workaholic and messing with his wife by setting up some twisted surprise on me today. ‘Right, I’m off. I should be back around lunchtime though, so maybe we can do something later?’

  Ah, there it was. Dangling a carrot, making sure I kept the rest of the day free. I liked his style.

  ‘Yeah, sure. I’m just going to take the boys to the park, maybe see the girls, so I’ll be around. Just give me a call.’

  It was my turn for a kiss. ‘See you later. Love you,’ he murmured, then off he went.

  As soon as I heard the door close, I ripped open the brown envelope.

  Contract.

  Carly Cooper.

  Associate Writer.

  Project: Family Comes First

  Oh Jesus, it was here. It was actually here. I already knew the terms of the agreement, because the assistant to the assistant to the assistant (it was Hollywood, that’s how it worked) to the producers had been emailing back and forth for weeks.

  I picked up my mobile and texted Kate.

  Contract is here. It’s official. If I make it big, it was lovely knowing you, but I’ll be at the spa with Reese Witherspoon. xxxx

  No answer. Bugger, she must still be in bed. Kate and her husband, Bruce, enjoyed an interlude of passion every Saturday morning. I tried not to be jealous. After all, Mark liked an interlude of passion at least once a month and a bonus one if there was a bank holiday.

  Sigh.

  The boys finished their breakfast and went off to play, while I sat down and read every word of the contract. Twice.

  Still no reply from Kate.

  I had to stop myself from drumming my fingers on the table. Where were all the people in my life? This was one of my biggest moments, on one of my biggest days, and I was sitting alone at my kitchen table feeling extremely sorry for myself.

  Ping! Text. Hurrah! Someone had remembered!

  I picked it up – not Kate.

  Sam: Did it arrive?

  I checked the clock, 9.30 a.m., so that was 1.30 a.m. in LA.

  Me: It did. Why are you still up?

  Sam: I’m a movie star. I’m supposed to be up all night with cocaine and a harem.

  Me: So you’re sitting alone like a saddo drinking beer?

  Sam: Sure am.

  That made me laugh, because I knew it was true. When I’d done the trail of hope to Hollywood a couple of years before, it had amused me no end that nights out and dinner parties were usually over by ten, because most of the successful people in the industry got up in the middle of the night to work out, meditate, or whatever else they did to connect with their inner superstar.

  I was about to make further fun of him, but he jumped the queue by texting first.

  Sam: Have you told Mark yet?

  Me: …

  …

  …

  …

  I typed and deleted at least four excuses, or fudges of the truth, then went with…

  No.

  I knew that, right now, Sam would be sighing, and trying to come up with the right thing to say. Problem was, there wasn’t a right thing in this situation and I only had myself to blame. After my failed trip to LA a couple of years before, I’d been offered some scriptwriting work, but it had frittered out. I’d been devastated, but what could I do? Mark was right. Jobs in Tinsel Town were too precarious, too sporadic, and it didn’t work when we lived in the UK and were raising a family.

  I accepted it. Came to terms with it. The End.

  The big dream was over.

  That is, until a month ago, when my LA agent had got in touch with an offer to join the writing team on a new comedy drama Family Comes First.

  My first call had been to Sam. ‘Did you do this? I mean, if you did, I’m eternally grateful and I’ll give you the internal organ of your choice should you ever need it…’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with me,’ he’d said, very definitely.

  ‘Sam…?’

  ‘Cooper, I swear. If I was behind it, I’d tell you, because you’d find out anyway. You did this on your own.’ I could hear in his voice how happy he was for me.

  I just hoped my husband felt the same.

  I planned to tell him that night. And the next. And the next. But I never quite got the words out. I did, of course, tell the girls though.

  ‘Are you going to wait until you’re
unpacking your case in LA before you actually let Mark know about this?’ Kate had asked. She always could read my mind.

  That old career-limiting chestnut. Writing in LA was the dream. Married life in Chiswick was the reality. Without a husband who was on board with the dream, I didn’t see a way I could do both.

  Problem was, I hadn’t quite refused the LA job. And by that, I mean I’d made positive noises all along and they were sure I was ready to jump on the plane. In my head, I had a fantasy life where Mark thought it was a great idea, told me we’d work it out somehow, and then supported me as I took my little guys to LA and beautifully juggled writing and motherhood. My dashing husband would then fly over whenever possible and we’d have missed each other so much, he’d ravish me at every opportunity.

  Like I said… fantasy.

  But there was one tiny nugget of hope. If he didn’t make partner, then perhaps I could persuade him to take a chance on this. Sure, it was a gamble. Shows got cancelled all the time. Projects got shelved before they even got started. Mark, who needed security, concrete plans, bloody pensions, struggled with the very thought of those kinds of risks. But if the partnership didn’t materialise, if his morale was low, if he started to question his commitment to the rat race, maybe – just maybe – I could persuade him to take a chance on this. On me.

  The ping of another text interrupted my thoughts.

  You’ll work it out. Goodnight, Cooper…

  A wave of sadness. I knew Sam was cutting short the conversation because he didn’t want to interfere in my marriage. He’d tried that once before. He’d wanted to love me, to build a life over there, but I’d chosen Mark. At the time, my husband had made big promises: he’d work less, he’d be more present, he’d support my career, he’d do more with the boys, we’d make time for each other. It had lasted for a while, then life had taken over and we’d slipped back to the same old ways.