by Frances Pye
Sperm? Sex? Clive made an educated guess. “Unlike Jules.”
“Poor Jules.”
“It must have been awful.” “Awful” sounded a safe bet. After all, she’d been in the hospital.
“She wanted that baby so much. The miscarriage almost destroyed her.”
“So Lily said.”
“And she’s alienated Sean, so she can’t use him as a donor again.”
A donor. This was getting better and better. Lily had actually lent, no, shared her lover with her friends. He set about asking the right questions to get Mara to let slip all the juicy details. God, what a story. Front page, for sure. And Lily would hate it. Clive struggled hard to repress a grin. He was a happy man.
LILY WAS tempted to ignore the message on her answering machine. It was nine-thirty already and all she wanted to do was take a long, hot shower before Sean arrived at ten, let the six wall-mounted jets of water in her marble walk-in stall wash away the stress of the day. The horror of telling Mara about Jake. But she walked over to the hall table and pressed the red button on the machine. What if it was one of the kids needing help?
Beep. “Hi, Lily. Sean. Listen, something’s come up. I’m sorry, I, um, won’t be able to make it tonight. Er, see you. ’Bye.”
“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.” Lily slammed her handbag down on the table. “Fuck.”
She went downstairs, into the kitchen, and poured herself a very, very stiff gin and tonic. This was not supposed to happen anymore. Having Sean back to herself was supposed to have made him more interested. Instead, it seemed to have made him less so. That message, along with its pauses and ums and ers, was a lie. Nothing had “come up.” Sean just hadn’t fancied it. Hadn’t fancied her. Fuck.
She reached for the phone. This was a case for Terry. If she couldn’t have Sean, she could at least talk to her best friend.
“Hi.”
“Paul, it’s Lily. Is your mum there?”
“Yeah. But you can’t talk to her.”
“Is she okay?”
“Yeah. But she’s busy.”
“Paul. This isn’t funny. What’s she doing? Tell her it’s me.”
“I can’t.”
“That’s crap. Why can’t you?”
“Cos she’s in bed.”
“What? Is she sick? I’ll be right over.”
“No, no. She’s okay. More than okay. She’s fantastic. She’s with someone.” Paul stressed the last two words to give them extra significance.
“With someone?”
“Isn’t it great? It’s what I’ve been hoping. I knew when he didn’t come round for a bit that something had happened but she wouldn’t talk about it and nor would he but then he turned up this evening and they talked for a bit and then they went off to bed together. Yes.”
“He? Do you mean Sean?”
“Course. Isn’t it great? Aunt Lily? Aunt Lily?”
But Aunt Lily had already hung up. And hurled her drink at the expensive stainless-steel American fridge.
What the hell was Terry up to? She’d trusted that girl. Relied upon her. And now look. She was fucking Sean.
It had been one thing when Lily had chosen to give her lover to her friends, but now they seemed to be taking the law into their own hands and doing whatever they wanted, with no reference to her. And she couldn’t take it. This had all been her idea—Sean was her lover, he was hers to control, hers to organize, hers to say yes or no to.
Lily got another glass out of the cupboard and poured herself an even stiffer drink. He was supposed to be here tonight. She needed him after what had happened this evening. But instead he was with that…that bitch. While she was sitting here, alone, longing for a man. For Sean.
Fuck her. Had all that garbage about not wanting sex been just that? Garbage? Lily had always had trouble believing it, but Terry had been so sure, she’d taken it at face value. But supposing it had all been an act? Supposing she’d just been biding her time, waiting for the right guy to come along?
Lily remembered all the days Sean and Terry had spent together. Okay, most of them had included Paul, but there had been some—the trip to look at buildings, the visit with Sean’s friends in South London—that even at the time had sounded more like dates. Had Lily been played for a fool by her supposed best friend? All the time she’d been convinced that Terry wasn’t a threat, had she been homing in on Sean? Persuading him that the woman he wanted wasn’t Lily, but Terry?
And today? What a brilliant masterstroke that had been. To send Lily haring off to Chiswick, then step in and grab what she wanted. Sean.
Fuck. Her friend. Her best friend. In bed with her lover. Lily grabbed the bottle of gin and poured herself another, this time not bothering with the tonic. She took a big gulp and fought back tears. She was not going to cry about this. She wasn’t going to give anyone that satisfaction. But it was hard. She hadn’t just lost Sean. She’d lost Terry too. For the last twenty years, Terry had been the first person she’d called whenever anything happened, good or bad. The person she’d have entrusted with her life. With her twins’ lives. And she had turned out to be false.
Lily picked up the bottle and her glass, took them to her den, and settled in for the duration. She’d worry about what to do about Sean and Terry the following day. Tonight, she was going to get rip-roaring drunk. And try not to think about what was happening right now in her ex-best-friend’s bed.
“THAT WAS…I can’t think of a word for what that was.” Terry lay on her side, facing Sean. She was having a hard time stopping herself smiling. So that was what it was all about. No wonder people were so mad for it.
“Nice?”
“Nice! A cup of tea is nice. This wasn’t tea. This was…I don’t know. Like the best champagne. Fantastic. Unbelievable. Amazing.” Terry still couldn’t believe it. After all this time, she’d finally managed it. No, they’d managed it. He’d managed it.
Because it was all down to Sean. For the first time in her life, she hadn’t felt any pressure. At no point did she sense him glancing at his mental watch, wanting her to hurry up, to move on, to finish. Instead, it had been wonderful. Slow, gentle, easy. She’d been able to forget her past problems and enjoy what was happening. To stop worrying about where she was supposed to be going and whether this would be the time she would get there, and simply live.
“I gather you liked it?”
“Liked it?” Terry spluttered, almost angry with him for putting himself down this way. Didn’t he know how incredible he was? But then she looked harder at him, looked beyond his slow smile to the telltale moisture in his eyes. And realized that this had meant as much to him as it had to her. So much that he didn’t want to—maybe even couldn’t—talk about it. She leaned over to kiss him. “You could say that.”
sixty-one
Sean opened his eyes. It was still dark. Slowly, quietly, he edged out of bed and, shivering in the early morning chill, pulled on his clothes as quickly as possible. Terry was still fast asleep. It was no wonder. They hadn’t dropped off until it was gone three. He would have given a great deal to stay with her, to wake up slowly, bring her breakfast in bed, and then start in again, but they had decided that, for Paul’s sake, he should leave before the boy was up. Chances were Paul would have already realized that Sean had stayed over, but Terry didn’t want his nose rubbed in it until she’d had a chance to talk to him and make sure he was all right about it.
The night had been amazing. If anyone had asked him in advance how he would feel if a woman told him what Terry had, he would have said pressured. Pressured to perform, to make things happen at last. But he hadn’t felt that way at all. Instead, there’d been a strange sense of release. In the past with women, he’d always had a lingering fear of failure. The responsibility for their pleasure could seem onerous. And the idea of falling short where others had made the grade was hard to take. But with Terry, none of that had been there. He’d been so focused on her that he’d had little chance to think of himself.
Maybe
because he was truly in love, for the first time in his life. He’d known from the moment she opened the door of the flat the previous evening and now was even more sure, if that were possible. He loved her strength, her nerve, loved the way she’d told him the truth about herself even though she must have known that many men would have laughed at her for it. More than that, he loved her pretty, roguish face, her wild hair, her idiosyncratic style. Loved the way she came up only to his shoulder, loved her gorgeous, curvy body, her amazing legs, her soft Liverpool voice. Loved her empathy with others, her ability to listen, the way she never took herself too seriously. He loved her.
Sean heard a door opening and Paul’s footsteps coming down the stairs and heading for the bathroom. He’d better get going before he was seen. No time to write a note. Terry was huddled under the duvet. He leaned over to kiss the top of her head, then waited until he’d heard the bathroom door close behind the boy, pulled on his leather jacket, and tiptoed out of the flat. He’d call later in the day. And arrange to see Terry in the evening. To talk about their future.
THUMP. THUMP.
“Mam! It’s seven-thirty. Time to get up.” Paul knocked on his mother’s door, then clumped off down the corridor to scavenge some breakfast. He couldn’t stop grinning. Last night must have gone well. Mam never overslept on a school day.
Terry stirred at the sound of her son’s voice and woke. And smiled. She couldn’t remember the last time she had woken up feeling so good. So hopeful. She turned to Sean. And opened her eyes to find him gone. Of course, it was late. She hadn’t heard him get up, and though they’d agreed he’d leave before Paul was awake, she couldn’t help being disappointed that he wasn’t there. She wanted to see him, to talk over last night, to make sure she hadn’t been dreaming.
“Mam! Come on.”
She got up, felt the muscles in her inner thighs complaining at the unaccustomed exercise, and had her reassurance. It had happened. Wait until she told Lily. She’d be amazed.
Terry sat back down on the bed. God. Lily. Her best friend, the person who’d saved her life when Finn walked out. Who had been nothing but supportive of her from the moment they’d met. And look how she’d paid her back. By seducing her lover after they’d all agreed that the share was off.
So what should she do? She couldn’t say nothing, could she? It was tempting—it would be much, much easier to keep quiet about it. But she’d always told Lily everything. Besides, if she and Sean were going to be together, how long could she hide that from her best friend? Maybe for a few days, a week even? And then what? In the end, Lily would have to know, and telling her would get harder and harder the longer she put it off.
No, she had to put her in the picture. And soon, before she chickened out. But maybe there was no need to be worried? After all, Lily didn’t love Sean. And she was always saying that one man was much like another, wasn’t she? Even if she’d seemed keener on Sean than on some of the others, maybe she wouldn’t be too upset at losing him when she found out just how much he meant to her friend?
Well, Terry could only hope. Before she could change her mind, she grabbed the phone and dialed Lily’s number.
“Yes.”
“Lils, it’s me.”
“Oh.”
“This a bad time?”
“You could say that.”
“Sorry. I know it’s early. I can call back later? I just need to talk to you for a couple of minutes.”
“Do you? How interesting.”
“Lils, what is it?”
“Well, I fucking don’t need to talk to you.”
“Wh…wh…what?”
“Can’t find your own man?”
“I…I…”
“Have to steal mine, then. Now, now, don’t be coy. You see, I know who was sleeping in your bed last night.”
“Oh.”
“Yes. ‘Oh.’”
“Who told you?” Could it have been Sean? He wouldn’t have, would he?
“Your beloved son.”
“Paul? But how?”
“I called you last night. I was depressed. I’d been stood up. Foolish little me, I thought you might cheer me up. Not that you were the one I’d been stood up for.”
“Lils, I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry.”
“Thieving bitch.”
“I didn’t mean…It just happened.”
“Yeah. I bet. I bet it did.”
“It did.”
“You fucking cow. I suppose you had this all planned from the start.”
“I didn’t.”
“We agreed. No more sharing.”
“I know. Only I couldn’t help it, could I? I love him.”
“Love?” She made the word sound like the strongest expletive going. “What’s love got to do with it?”
“Please, Lils. You don’t understand.”
“Fuck your love.”
“But It happened. It. You know. After all these years. I came.”
“Oh, goodie.”
“Please be happy for me.”
“Piss off.”
“Don’t be like this. Please.”
“And I suppose you think he loves you?”
“I don’t know. I hope so.”
“Well, he doesn’t. He loves me. You better make the most of last night. Cos it’s all you’re getting.”
“Lily…”
“And don’t fucking call me again.”
With that, Lily slammed the phone down.
Shocked, Terry looked at the receiver. And then pressed the redial button. Lily couldn’t mean it, could she? She needed a punching bag, someone to scream and shout at, an outlet for her rage. But she’d calm down. They just had to talk it out and she’d get over it. Wouldn’t she?
The answering machine picked up. “Hi, this is Lily—”
Terry hung up. There was no point. Lily knew who was calling and was refusing to pick up the phone. She’d try again later.
sixty-two
Sean forced himself to ease up on the accelerator. The last thing he needed was a speeding ticket.
Not today. Not now.
In only a few minutes, he was going to see his boys. It had been an incredible twenty-four hours. First Terry, now Mark and Ben.
At about ten, his mobile phone had rung. The number that came up on the LCD display was unfamiliar. If he’d been in the middle of something, he might have ignored it, but he’d just finished overseeing the installation of an outsize bath in the model flat and was on his way to get something to eat in the local fry-it-all café. He was ravenous. Dinner had gotten lost in the excitement of last night, and he’d been too rushed to get breakfast any earlier.
So he answered the call.
“Hello, Sean. Long time no speak.”
“Isobel!”
“Yes, Isobel.”
“Where are you? Are Mark and Ben okay? What’s happened?”
“God, I forgot how you always got so panicky about them. Don’t worry. They’re fine.”
“Promise?”
“Promise. They’re big, healthy, bright, noisy kids. But they’re growing up.”
“Yes. Yes, of course. Of course they are.” Sean couldn’t stop babbling. It was Isobel. And the boys were fine.
“And missing their father.”
“Whose fault is that?” Sean knew it wasn’t sensible to jibe at Isobel—here she was, making contact after two years, he shouldn’t alienate her—but he couldn’t stop himself. This woman had put him through hell.
“Mine.”
“Is that really you?” She must have changed. It wasn’t like the old Isobel to admit to any kind of fault.
“It’s me. And I’m sorry. I made a mistake when I took them.”
“Sorry.”
“Yes.”
It seemed a very small word to make amends for his loss of Mark and Ben. But he had lived with Isobel and he knew how much it must have cost her. Under normal circumstances, apologies were not part of her armory. And after all, they could do the r
ecriminations later. Now there were more important things. “Where are you?”
“Cancale.”
“Where?”
“Cancale. In Brittany.”
France. France. Why hadn’t he thought of that? She was Canadian, she’d studied French at school. And all his many detectives had said that her plumber boyfriend could get a job anywhere in the world. Now that he knew, it made complete sense. “When can I see the boys?”
“Whenever you can get here.”
“I’m on my way.”
“No rush.”
“No rush? Are you mad? I haven’t seen my kids in two years and you say there’s no rush. Give me the address.” Sean hunted in his pockets for a scrap of paper, came up with an old credit card receipt, and scribbled down the directions. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Good. And, Sean, I want you to take them.”
With that she had hung up.
Now it was close to five. The moment he’d stopped talking to Isobel, he’d called his foreman to say he didn’t know when he’d be back, run to his car, raced to the Channel Tunnel, got a train to Calais, and then driven along the northern coast to Brittany. To Cancale. As he came into the old fishing village, down a narrow, high-hedged road, past stall after stall selling oysters and mussels, he could smell the salt tang of the sea, hear the sound of gulls crying in the air, see the oyster beds in shadowy rows far out in the bay. And this was where Mark and Ben had been living. Making friends, going to school, growing up. Speaking a foreign language. Without him.
He found the address Isobel had given him and parked about twenty yards farther on. The narrow street, one block back from the café-lined seafront, looked as if it rarely saw the sun. The homes were small, gray-stone oystermen’s cottages, indistinguishable one from each other apart from the color of the front doors and the occasional roadway shrine. Sean didn’t know what he had expected; certainly not this quiet, sedate place that looked as if nothing unusual had or ever would happen.
Now that he was here, he found he was reluctant to go in. What if the boys didn’t recognize him? What if they resented his absence from their lives? What if they didn’t want to go home with him? What if they only spoke French?