by Frances Pye
A pack of about six kids came around the corner. Some dressed in blue French national team shirts, some in jeans and different colored sweatshirts, they moved down the middle of the street, laughing and joking, some walking backward, others kicking a soccer ball against the walls. As they advanced, kids peeled off to go into various houses. Until there were only two. Mark and Ben.
Sean would have recognized them anywhere. Recognized the individual ways they walked, how they held their arms, the expressions on their faces. Yes, they’d changed, they were older, taller, and he’d heard them calling out good-byes in French to their friends, but they were still his boys. Mark’s smile was still Mark’s smile, Ben’s frown of concentration still wrinkled his brow.
He couldn’t stop shaking. With excitement, with nerves, and with the sudden release of the stress that had been with him, so familiar as to be unnoticed most of the time, for the last two years. Ever since they’d disappeared. He pulled his cigarettes out of his pocket, lit one, and took a deep drag. They were alive and well and safe.
He let Mark and Ben walk past him on the opposite side of the street and go into their house. After all this time, he didn’t want their first meeting to be in public. He looked at his mobile, thought about calling Terry, and decided against it. Part of him was longing to tell her where he was and why. To talk to her about the boys, about last night, about everything. About their future. But he also wanted to see Isobel and find out whether she’d meant what she’d said just before she’d hung up. And the extent of what he would be asking Terry to take on.
He switched off his phone, got out of the car, and crossed the road. He walked up to the boys’ red front door, reached out to press the doorbell, and heard it echo through the house. And Mark’s—Mark’s?—voice shouting, “Someone’s at the door, Mum.” And the realization finally hit him. He was going to see his boys.
sixty-three
The giant bus swung around the tight corner, into the constricted back street, and stopped in front of the tiny hole-in-the-wall pub. Normally, Terry enjoyed this bit of the journey north; Islington was always humming nowadays and she was proud of the fact that she was able to maneuver the bus through the narrow one-way system. But today she couldn’t wait to get home. Away from work, away from the passengers, away from her conductor, Fred. And away from the world. She was desperate to see if Sean had called. Or Lily.
She hadn’t been able to think of anything else since she’d left for work. At first, it had been Lily. Terry had seen her lose her temper in the past, but never had her friend seemed so consumed with rage. So determined to lash out and hurt. Nor had her anger ever been directed at Terry before. And it had been scary. All morning, as she moved around the city, sitting in her little cab, locked in the world inside her head, Terry had tried to reassure herself, insisting that all Lily needed was a bit of time to calm down and all would be well.
But all wasn’t well. Terry had tried to call her on her first turnaround at ten, and then at twenty past eleven, and finally at ten to one. When the recorded phone company message had changed from “The person you are calling is busy. Please try later” to “The number you have called is no longer in service.”
Lily had changed her number. It wasn’t unknown for her to do that—since the success of her show, she’d done it a few times, to escape some bothersome journalist or a particularly persistent fan who had gotten her personal details from somewhere—but she’d always let her family and close friends know in advance. Usually days before the switch happened. But Terry had heard nothing. And she would have done. No, it felt like Lily had done this on the spur of the moment. To avoid Terry. And to let her know that they were no longer friends.
All she could hope for was that there would be a message waiting for her with the new number when she got home, but she was very afraid that there wouldn’t be. She went over and over what had been said on the telephone, and no matter how she tried, couldn’t get away from it. Lily’s attitude had not been that of someone who is going to forgive and forget in a hurry.
What had she said? “I suppose you think he loves you? Well, he doesn’t. He loves me. You better make the most of last night. Cos it’s all you’re getting. And don’t fucking call me again.” Those were the words of a deeply angry, jealous woman who wasn’t about to change her mind. She wanted Sean. And she believed she had him.
Terry’s general uneasiness grew into real worry. Outwardly, she carried on as normal, maneuvering the red bus around the streets of London, returning the waves of people she recognized, stopping and starting on cue, but inside she was on autopilot, her thoughts dominated by Sean, her night with him, and what it might have meant. And whether Lily was right. That he loved her, not Terry.
At no time during the whole night had he said anything about the future. There had been no mention of tomorrow or the day after, no reference to what they were going to do, to how they would be together. Had there? Terry had just assumed, but maybe Lily was right. Maybe it had been a one-night stand?
Terry thought back, tried to remember every word they had said to each other, and realized that Sean hadn’t said anything about his feelings. He certainly hadn’t declared undying love. In fact, he hadn’t even mentioned fancying her, had he? She’d presumed, because of the kiss and his reaction to her rejection of him. But he’d been drunk. Maybe it had been a hasty impulse, regretted almost as soon as it had occurred? Maybe he’d been abrupt when he left that night out of embarrassment, not frustrated desire? Maybe his phone calls had just been to apologize?
When he’d arrived at her door yesterday evening, she’d been so pleased to see him and so caught up in her own internal struggle that she had launched into her speech about her problem. He hadn’t said anything about wanting her, had he? Not a single word. She hadn’t given him a chance. Suppose he hadn’t been interested? Suppose he’d taken her to bed out of pity? Oh, no. No. No.
From worry, Terry now sank into panic. She’d presumed that he’d enjoyed the night as much as she had but there was no proof. Maybe it had been just another fuck. Nothing special. Just being kind to his lover’s needy friend. God, how humiliating. There she’d been burbling on about how it had been special and wonderful, and he’d been more or less unmoved.
She’d been so sunk in her own fantasy that she’d even imagined seeing tears in Sean’s eyes. Of course there was no way the night could mean as much to him as it had to her. How could it? Chances were, he’d been having and enjoying sex since his teens. Whereas she’d more or less begged him to give her her first-ever orgasm at the age of thirty-seven, hadn’t she? Christ, how embarrassing. He’d been perfectly polite, but he must have been laughing at her all the time.
How could she have imagined that he preferred her to Lily? Preferred her old-fashioned, generous curves to Lily’s gym-toned leanness? Her wild, rainbow style to her friend’s designer chic? God. She’d lain there in bed with him, so crazy happy that she’d not even bothered to try and hide her flabby thighs. Or her droopy tits. And she thought he still wanted her after that?
Terry shuddered in horror at the extent of her naiveté. And stopped the bus. Halfway around Newington Green, in the middle of the traffic, blocking two lanes, she halted. Ignoring the rules, forgetting the trusting passengers, she bent over the steering wheel and howled. If it hadn’t been for the tight fit, she’d have tried to curl up into a tiny ball on the floor of her cab. She’d made a complete fool of herself. Unbidden and unstoppable, images of Sean and Lily together crammed into her mind. In bed, in the bath, out to dinner, dancing, sleeping, driving, fucking…and in all of them, they were laughing. At Terry. She howled again. And again.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
The noise made Terry look up. Fred was outside, banging on the side of the bus. “Terry? Ter, love, what’s up? What’s the matter?”
Slowly, slowly, with a massive effort, she pulled herself out of the vortex. “Sorry, Fred. Just a…a sudden cramp. You know,” she managed to stammer out. She h
ated to use the fact that she was a woman, but she didn’t want to admit to Fred what was wrong. “I’m fine. Really.” The conductor looked very unsure. “Go on, get back on the bus. We’re holding up half of North London here.”
Fred stared into Terry’s white, set face. She didn’t look well. Or happy. And that howling had sounded as if she were in real pain. However, if she were determined to carry on, there wasn’t much he could do to stop her. With a last, worried look backward, he walked along the side of the bus to the platform at the end.
Waving an apology at the waiting traffic, Terry drove off. She had to hold herself together until she got home. She couldn’t allow herself to think about Sean or Lily. Or last night. She had to concentrate on moving the wheel, on changing gears, on stopping at the proper stops. One minute at a time.
sixty-four
The door opened.
Her hair was a little lighter, her makeup a little heavier, the lines around her eyes a little more deeply etched, but in essence Isobel looked much the same.
“Sean. Thank you for coming so quickly.” Her voice was different. He hadn’t noticed on the phone so much, but it was softer, more resigned. Whatever had prompted her to call him, Sean bet it wasn’t because she was happy.
“Belle.”
“Who is it, Mum?” And tearing along the corridor came a small, nine-year-old, toffee-haired boy with an infectious grin. Mark.
“Have a look.” And Isobel moved back, allowing Mark to see his father.
“Hello, Mark.” Sean felt oddly shy.
The boy was silent.
“Don’t you recognize me?…It’s Dad.” Sean longed to grab his son, to hold him, to hug him as hard as he could, but he held back. It had been two years. Mark needed time.
“Dad?”
“Yes.”
“Really Dad?”
“Yes. Really Dad.”
And Mark launched himself into Sean’s arms. “I knew. I knew. I knew you weren’t dead. Ben said you were, but I knew.”
Sean swung Mark around and around. “You knew right. Course I’m not dead.” He could hardly stop himself jumping for joy. Mark was here, in his arms, and happy to see him.
After a time, he put him down, though still holding fast to his hand. “Where’s Ben?”
And Mark pointed along the corridor. At the far end, standing in the doorway to what looked to be the kitchen, was a small figure clutching a Star Wars model, staring at the tall man in the hallway.
“Ben?” Sean started to walk toward his younger son. “It’s me. Dad.” He crouched down in front of the boy, who literally looked as if he was seeing a ghost. Because, in his mind, he was. “Don’t be scared. It is me. I promise.” And he reached out to touch Ben, hoping to reassure him that he was here, alive, real flesh and blood. But Ben shrank away from his hand. Sean let it drop. And looked around for inspiration. How could he persuade a child he wasn’t dead?
Mark pushed forward to talk to his brother. “Stupid. It’s Dad. Look.” And he held Sean’s hand up, to show Ben that he was solid, no ghost. “See?”
“You sure?”
“Yup.”
“Okay.” And Ben tentatively reached out to touch Sean. “D…Dad?”
Sean grabbed him, held him tight. “Ben. Ben. Ben.”
“Dad. You’re hurting me,” Ben said after a few moments.
Sean laughed and relaxed his hold. Everything was going to be all right. They had things to talk about, and it would take time before they were back where they had been two years before, but crouching there in the narrow corridor, Ben held lightly in his arms, Mark by his side, his small hand on his father’s shoulder, Sean felt better than he had since he had first heard of their disappearance. He felt normal.
sixty-five
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t know, dear.”
“Not about that, maybe. But you didn’t like him.”
“Yes I did. He was charming.”
“Charming. But a pig.”
“No, not that, dear. Just a man. Most of them do it if they get a chance, you know.”
“Amy!”
“No point gilding the lily. They’re like that.”
“Not Archie?”
“Oh, yes, dear, he was. Not at the beginning, I don’t think. Not while we thought…Not while we were trying to have children. But then after, when we had to give up. I suppose it was consolation for him.”
“But not for you. Poor Amy.”
“He’d never admit it. Even after I found out. That upset me most.”
“Were there many of them?”
“Five or six that I knew of. He was a handsome man, was my Archie.”
“It must have been awful.”
“I never got used to it. But I tried to understand. I told myself it didn’t mean he didn’t love me.”
“But it does, doesn’t it?”
“You mustn’t think that. Jake loved you and the girls.”
“Not enough to be faithful.”
“It’s us that want weddings and devotion, dear. They’re not that way. Not really.”
“Was Archie still…at the end?”
“No. Oh, no. That was all long forgotten. He had his pigeons then, you see.”
Mara leaned back in her friend’s old, broken-spring armchair and took a sip of her wine. It was a stormy night, wind-driven rain buffeting the windows. An hour or so ago, she had set out the bowls, taken the girls for a sleepover at a schoolmate’s house, and instinctively headed for Amy. After a night and a day of massive emotional upheaval, her friend’s cool acknowledgment of the facts of life had been what she’d needed to calm her down. And allow her to see through the distortion of her feelings to the reality of her and Jake’s flawed relationship.
The last twenty-four hours had been like repeating the process of grieving all over again. Mara had gone through shock, anger, denial, more anger, and finally acceptance. Shock that this could be happening, anger at Lily for telling her, denial that what she had learned was the truth, rage at Jake for so betraying her and the girls, and now, at last, some acceptance.
Jake hadn’t been a saint. Quite the opposite. He had been a more than usually fallible man who happened to die before Mara could find out—as she inevitably would have—that he was sleeping around on her. And so, faced with a life without him, Mara had put him on a pedestal. Worshiped him and the life they had led together. And refused even to contemplate moving on.
“Amy?”
“Yes, dear?”
“Would you hate me if I told you that I’m sort of relieved?”
“I could never hate you, dear.”
“But don’t you think it’s odd? Surely I should be sad?”
“No, dear. Why?”
“Because I’ve just found out my perfect husband wasn’t perfect.”
“I never held much with perfection myself. It’s hard to live up to.”
“Exactly. Yes, that’s it. That’s why I’m feeling the way I am. I don’t have to be guilty for being me anymore. My feet of clay are fine now Jake’s turned out to be mud.”
“That’s nice.”
“In fact, I feel better than I have in years and years and years. I can sell the house.”
“Yes.”
“I can live a normal life.”
“Yes, dear.”
“I can do anything. Anything.”
“Maybe you can call your friend? And tell her she did the right thing?”
“Lily.” Mara stared at Amy, horrified. With the mention of Lily’s name came memories of last night. Of Clive. Of what Mara had said. “Oh, my God. Lily.”
“What is it?”
“After she left, I…I…Amy, can I use your phone?”
“Of course, dear.”
But Lily’s number had been changed. It wasn’t all that unusual, but Mara cursed the fact that it had happened today, of all days. She had to get around there, right now. To warn Lily about what she had told Clive. The story hadn’t appear
ed in the paper yet—he would have needed a day or so to do some research and put it all together—but it was only a matter of time.
“GIVE ME another, please, Charlie.”
“Are you sure? It’ll be your fifth.”
“I’m sure. Very, very sure.”
“Okay. You’re the boss.” And Charlie, whose real name was Giuseppe but who answered to anything when working, poured Jules another glass of wine. She was sitting at a large bar in a trendy new restaurant, all leather seats and linen walls. Behind her, the party she had organized was beginning to wind down. Not that she cared. Technically, she was on duty, overseeing a wealthy industrialist’s fiftieth birthday bash, but in reality she hadn’t taken any interest in what was happening since the arrival of the first canapés. For the past two hours, she’d been at the bar, steadily drinking, leaving the party to run itself.
She had thought that she would feel better back at work. But she didn’t. If anything, she felt worse. Spending her days and nights with happy, celebrating people only made her more miserable. All those jolly, smiling faces made her want to scream. Or get drunk. And as screaming wasn’t recommended at posh parties, she took the other option. This was the third time this week. And she still had the weekend’s slate of functions to go.
Somehow, the fine points of her company didn’t seem quite as crucial anymore. Jules kept reminding herself of all the years she’d spent building up Dunne Parties’ reputation for attention to detail, that she mustn’t toss that hard work away, but she couldn’t help herself. Who cared whether the blinis for the caviar were the right shape and size? Why did it matter if the quail eggs were hard-rather than soft-boiled? What was the difference between one Chardonnay and another so long as it was good and cold and plentiful?
Particularly plentiful. Jules took another long drink of wine. Ever since the decision to end the Sean time-share scheme, she had been finding it astonishingly hard to keep up the pretense, to make people believe that she was a normal, happy person enjoying life. Instead of a miserable, depressed, childless woman who was already thirty-eight. Years and years of social training were all that stood between her and the ever-present threat of tears. That and copious amounts of alcohol.