by Sarah Clarke
But before I get chance to escape, Jo is suddenly there, standing by my table. ‘I hear you’re looking for a job?’ She sits down opposite me. ‘And that you’re a friend of Ben’s? That is so amazing. Fate. No, serendipity. Is that right? I think that’s right. Anyway, we’d love to have you. Are you okay with cash in hand for a while? It’s my accountant. Adding headcount makes him sweat. If things work out, we can make things more formal in the New Year? What do you think?’
If I believed in God, I’d think it was a miracle. But I gave up faith in almost everything on that terrible night, so actually I don’t know what to think. Except that perhaps this is what I’m owed, after fourteen years of purgatory.
And that maybe my sentence is finally coming to an end.
‘When can I start?’
Chapter 16
FEBRUARY 2005
Phoebe
I swear under my breath. In the silent house it sounds louder, bouncing off the pale Travertine tiles as I reach over to open the bathroom cupboard. I grab a tampon from the open box, pull at the plastic wrapping with my teeth and try to blink away the tears that are forming across my eyes. I should be relieved really, under the circumstances. But I can’t help remembering how differently I felt last month; grieving for my non-child. There was guilt too, for still not being able to give Charlie a sibling or Dan another child. I throw the plastic packet in the pedal bin and slam down the lid with my foot.
I’ve arranged for Charlie to have a sleepover with his best friend Jude from nursery, and Dan has promised to be home by 8 p.m. The house is spotless and dinner is on a slow cook in the oven. There’s a bottle of champagne in the fridge; Dan doesn’t approve of real champagne without a tangible reason anymore, but I’m not in the mood for appeasing him tonight. And I’ve set the kitchen table for two, even lit a couple of candles.
I wash my hands and stare into the mirror. Dan’s prediction turned out to be right; going back to work did change my appearance. I put make-up on every day now and wear my hair down when I don’t have Charlie’s sticky hands to worry about. I even manage to get to the gym a couple of times a week, so my body has returned to its pre-baby shape too. Part of me misses the old Phoebe, the one who didn’t care about having tired eyes or a wobbly tummy, but I need to look my most attractive tonight, so loose curls hang over my shoulders and my denim blue eyes sparkle behind Bobbi Brown eye shadow.
I hear Dan’s key in the door and look at my watch; he’s fifteen minutes ahead of schedule and my stomach lurches in annoyance. He chooses tonight, the one night when I’m dreading seeing him, to break his habit. I think about the nights that he rolls in at 11 p.m., telling me he had to work late but smelling of booze. Or the Saturday mornings when he pops out for a bike ride, then phones me from Brighton because he was feeling too ‘in the zone’ to stop. Of course, I’ll never know whether they were all lies, or just some of them. I close the bathroom door and walk downstairs.
‘Wow, you look amazing.’
I’m wearing a plain black dress; it has nothing to offer itself except being short and tight, which seems to do it for Dan. ‘It’s date night, remember?’
‘Yeah, I know.’ He looks uncomfortable now and I’m not sure whether I want to cry or slap his chiselled face. ‘Just let me go and kiss Charlie goodnight.’
‘He’s not here.’
‘What?’ Dan didn’t know about this part. He’s never liked surprises and I enjoy the power it gives me. ‘He’s not with your parents, is he?’
That stings more than it should. When Charlie was born, I was surprised at how delighted my parents were to have a grandson; I’ve been even more amazed that their initial excitement has grown into something akin to genuine love. I never knew they were capable of it. Flora will spend hours with him, playing hide-and-seek, or Power Rangers if Charlie gets his way. I watch them together, feel the bittersweetness of it, but I never forget what fuels Flora’s creativity nowadays. I hardly leave them alone together, and I would never let Charlie stay overnight.
‘Of course not. He’s at Cara’s.’ Every working mother needs a wingman, and Cara is mine. I’ve only known her since we moved to this house, a meeting of prams that became an invite for a cup of tea, a friendship spawned by our parallel lives. But I rely on her more than anyone. Last-minute texts when the District Line is delayed, a beaker of milk when Charlie refuses to go to bed without one and our fridge is empty. It’s not all one way – we help each other out – but I suspect the scales are tipped in my direction. Perhaps because her husband is more trustworthy than mine.
‘Champagne?’ I ask, turning towards the kitchen. I don’t want him to see the dread in my eyes, I’m doing this in my own time.
‘A little extravagant just for date night, don’t you think?’
I hand him a flute, still fizzing with escaping bubbles. ‘I want tonight to be special.’
‘I assume that means you’re ovulating?’ He takes a long gulp and I wonder again how we got to this. How wanting another child could feel like such an injustice to him.
‘I got my period actually.’
‘Oh, okay. I’m sorry.’ But there’s no regret in his eyes, only relief. Tears threaten again and I realise how wafer-thin my mask is; I can’t keep up the pretence much longer.
‘Shall we eat?’ I use the task of serving up our chicken tagine to turn my back on him. To finish my glass of champagne and pour another. To remember the anger and use it to recharge.
He’s sat at the table when I finally turn around; our eyes catch for a moment and then he smiles. It’s so rare these days, to connect like this, and I can’t help pausing under its warmth. Then the moment is gone. I set the plates down, take a deep breath, and start my confession.
‘I know.’
Dan’s fork halts mid-air, then slowly works its way back onto his plate. ‘Know what?’
‘That you’re having an affair.’ My words dance around the room. The truth that I discovered three nights ago, that I’ve kept hoping might somehow disappear if I try hard enough; I can’t hide from it anymore.
He looks at me but doesn’t speak. His eyes widen, then narrow.
‘I saw the photo on your phone.’ I need to sound calm, to look like I’m in control, even though my heart is punching at my ribcage like a boxer on speed. ‘And I read the message that went with it.’ After years of unbroken sleep, Charlie has started to wake in the night, his eyes bright and head sweaty. I looked it up on the internet. Night terrors are common at his age apparently, especially for children with a vivid imagination. So when Charlie woke up the other night, I just silently cursed Flora’s genes and took him downstairs for a glass of milk. Dan had left his Blackberry on the breakfast bar. It was curiosity rather than mistrust that led me to pick it up, but it didn’t take me long to start scrolling through his texts. Opening the one from Jess. Seeing the seductive photo and slutty message. It was revealing enough to remove any opportunity for doubt.
‘Don’t be stupid.’ But he can’t summon up a proper denial.
‘I am stupid though, aren’t I? Believing your shit. You and me, against the world. Remember that, Dan?’
‘It wasn’t me who broke that promise.’
‘Don’t you dare blame this on me!’
‘So you didn’t shut me out when Charlie was born?’
‘He needed me.’
‘And you didn’t make it obvious that I wasn’t good enough to parent him, that only you could settle him, or feed him, or understand what the hell his different cries meant?’
‘I never treated you like that.’ But I can hear the hesitation creeping in my voice. How can he do this? How can he twist things?
‘Don’t lie! As soon as Charlie arrived, I became surplus to requirements. Until now of course, now that you want another kid. Suddenly it’s all champagne and fuck-me dresses again. Well, I can’t just perform to order.’
‘Why not? You love order!’ I’m not letting him win this. ‘I bet she’s your secretary, isn’t she? Or
your personal trainer? Predictable Dan – can’t even use his imagination when he’s finding someone else to fuck. In fact, having an affair isn’t even original is it? You’re just following in Daddy’s footsteps.’ The real reason Tony didn’t show up at school that day. The dirtier, unspoken truth about Dan’s mother’s death.
The noise is like a roar, guttural and violent. Then Dan pushes our plates, cutlery, the chicken tagine, onto the floor. It’s a symphony of chaos, the high pitch of metal slamming against the floorboards mixing with the ugly crash of smashing china. I fall to the floor myself, but whether it’s in fear or anger or just frustration I’m not sure. We were perfect together; I worked so hard to keep us that way. Now I’m cowering on my kitchen floor, waiting to see whether Dan storms out of the room or takes his anger out on me; and I’m not even sure which I’d prefer. But in the end, neither happens. The roar is replaced with a growling sound, like an animal stuck in a hunter’s trap, and I can’t stand to listen to it. ‘Shut up!’
‘What happened to us, Phoebe?’ He drops onto the floor, sits back on his haunches.
I slide backwards until I reach the island unit; I can’t let him reel me in. I stare at the metaphor of broken plates, a meal ruined, and use it to fire me back up. ‘You don’t get to ask that.’
‘Why not? Am I not allowed to care about us?’
‘You found someone sexier,’ I spit out. ‘That’s what happened.’
‘She’s not sexier.’ An admission of guilt, finally. Even though I already knew it, his words manage to make me feel more wretched.
‘So it’s true then.’
‘She’s nobody.’
‘You were willing to risk your marriage for nobody.’
‘I was lonely. She was there, always there. Flirting, pouting. Coming on to me. And you weren’t.’
‘I was always here! Looking after your son, cooking your meals, washing your fucking pants.’
‘But not being my wife, my lover. I don’t want a cook, or a cleaner. I deserve more than that! I want what we had.’
‘And you think the best way to find it is by going elsewhere?’
He doesn’t answer me; I watch him make a steeple with his fingers and rest his forehead onto it. The silence is oppressive, and I don’t know whether I’ve broken him, or fuelled some deeper anger. I start to regret my outburst, of bringing up the details of his mother’s death. Of uncovering his most vulnerable spot and prodding it. Finally, he lifts his head and looks into my eyes.
‘I’m sorry, Phoebe.’
I don’t say anything, or move towards him. I sit completely still.
‘It’s over, you have to believe me. Jesus, it never really began.’
Does he really think we can come back from this?
‘Please don’t leave me. You’re my wife. I love you.’
My arms tingle. I clench my fists and push them into the tiles.
‘I can’t live without you, Phoebe. You have to forgive me.’
Chapter 17
NOVEMBER 2019
Phoebe
‘Skinny decaf cortado please, extra hot.’
‘Drink-in or takeaway?’ But I’m not really paying attention to the smartly dressed lady in front of me because I’m too busy repeating her order in my head; worried it’s going to drift away from my middle-aged brain. And now I’ve missed her answer. ‘Sorry, what was that?’
‘Takeaway.’ She checks her watch. Her way of hurrying me along. I take a deep breath and turn to face the espresso machine.
This is only my second full shift but so far, so good. When I was forced to admit that I’d never used an espresso machine before, on that first evening when Jo suggested I stick around until it was quieter to learn the ropes, no one seemed to mind. As the café gradually emptied, Marco took me through it step by step, explaining how to make all the different coffees on their menu, as well as the mysterious intricacies of dry cappuccinos, split-shot Americanos and a multitude of other off-menu orders.
It was quite overwhelming at first, all that new information. But once I started making the different coffees, everything fell into place. It turns out that coffee making is a mixture of art, timing and process, so not that different from being a theatrical agent really.
I scoop some freshly ground coffee into the portafilter and secure it into the group head with a decisive twist. As I run the hot water through, I put a dash of skimmed milk into a jug and lift it onto the steam wand; 160 degrees is the ideal heat, a little hotter for this order, but there’s no temperature gauge. You have to feel it, according to Marco. Surprisingly, I do.
By the time I hand the coffee over to the woman, my composure has been restored and I manage to ring up her payment without a hitch. I’m not quite such a natural with the cash register, but I’m learning. As she strides out of the café – perhaps she was in a genuine hurry after all – I can’t help looking at my watch too. Charlie will be here soon, and I’m not sure whether it’s nervousness or excitement that’s playing havoc with my insides.
As if on cue, the door opens and there he is. Loping, handsome. I want to take a moment to bask in the glory of it all, but there’s a group of expectant mothers to serve so I turn to them instead. He doesn’t notice me, just wanders into the kitchen to drop his bag off. But as I’m adding the Bittersweet motif to my third latte, I sense him joining me behind the counter. Ben, I think firmly. His name is Ben now.
‘Fiona?’
Shit, that too. I look up. ‘Hi, Ben.’ I sound more casual than I’d planned. Anything to hide my thumping heartbeat, but now I sound like I think we’re best friends. I build in some distance. ‘I hope you don’t mind, me taking a job here. I was just passing really, but, well, I guess it was good timing. Me needing a job; Jo having one.’ Now I’m rambling. I pray for another customer to walk up to the counter, to stop me talking, but the space is uncharacteristically empty now that the pregnant women have sat down.
‘Whatever,’ he says. Shrugs. And then slips straight into work mode. ‘I’ll clear the tables while it’s quiet. You okay here?’
I nod, but turn away from him. I can’t let him see the beam spreading across my face.
Gradually, I feel more at ease in his company. The exchange of duties helps: passing the milk, saving the burning panini, catching the falling teaspoon. And having the others around helps too. I can see why Jo chose Marco to be her manager; he must be one of only a few people who match her pace. He’s a skinny thing and good-looking in an ethereal kind of way, his hair just long enough over his eyes to add a touch of mystery. But then he chats so easily, gesticulating wildly with it. It’s a contradiction that works in his favour. Hana is polite and generous, but her intelligent eyes flicker with feminist fire. With cupid lips and wide locks of shiny brown hair, she is also gorgeous, but I get the impression she doesn’t care too much about that.
As it turns out, they’re the leading actors in this performance; Charlie and I are just supporting roles. Marco teases Hana like a younger sister and she reacts every time. I want to tell her to ignore him, that he’ll get bored eventually. But teasing siblings is not something that I have any right to comment on. At first, I assumed he fancied her and that’s the reason for all the attention. But it didn’t take me long to realise he’s not interested in women. I worked in theatre for too many years not to notice that.
‘Fiona, take a break.’
It’s an order not an offer so I grab a bottle of fizzy water from the fridge – I couldn’t stomach a coffee after the number I’ve served – and walk to my table by the window. It’s past eight and the night sky has long since set in. I watch couples walk hand in hand to the bars and restaurants dotted along Old York Road. I came here with Dan once, to a restaurant called Konnigans; we spent a fortune on champagne and fillet steak. It was early in our marriage, before responsibility grew and romance dwindled. Our romance anyway.
‘Mind if I sit down?’ A voice interrupts my thoughts. His voice.
‘Of course.’ I try to
disguise my awkwardness by gesturing at the chair opposite but my arm flicks at the air with too much force and it looks like I’m shooing him away. I quickly pull it back and sit on my fingers.
After a moment’s pause, he lowers into the chair. ‘Last hour’s always a bit quieter,’ he says. ‘Gives us a chance to tidy up so that we can finish early.’
I nod at him; I can tell he’s got more to say so I stay quiet.
‘We usually stay behind on Thursdays, for a couple of beers. It’s sort of a tradition.’ I can’t tell whether he’s inviting me or warning me off, but after a moment’s pause, he continues. ‘You’re welcome to join us.’
‘Thank you,’ I say. But there’s still more.
‘It’s just that, well, I was hoping …’
Realisation hits me. Those boys in the park. His self-destruct mode. He’s scared I’m going to bring it up, tell Marco and Hana exactly how we met. I shouldn’t enjoy his discomfort, but I can’t stop a sense of euphoria spreading through me. We share a secret. And I have the power to protect it, and him.
‘If you’re worried I might say something about the other night, don’t be.’ I say it firmly; I want him to trust me. ‘We’ve all got our thing. And we’re entitled to keep that thing private. You know mine too, remember? It wasn’t exactly the smoothest bus ride.’
He acknowledges that with a tiny nod.
‘I won’t say a word. Not now, not ever.’
His face forms into a small, relieved smile, and then he’s off to clear the last few tables.
*
I didn’t stay for a beer in the end. It was hard to drag myself away, but I decided that joining your teenage son for a drinking session with his mates is not cool, under any circumstances. More than that, I had such a perfect image of his grateful face imprinted on my mind that I didn’t want to do anything that might dislodge it.