Hand On Heart: Sequel to Head Over Heels

by Downing, Sara

  What the…? Alex looked in bewilderment at the gadget. Whatever had she done? What was this, some kind of dating website? And why did all these people who supposedly wanted to meet her sound Greek? She thought she had shared her quiz results with her small group of Facebook friends, but no, it seemed she had shared ALL her details with the whole wide world of internet dating and was now out there, on the market, looking for a Greek man to date. How was she going to get herself out of this one?

  ‘Mark? Archie? Anyone there? Think I need some help.’ That was an understatement. The boys were going to have a field day with this one. Archie was always mocking her for being technically incompetent. She thought she was pretty good at all this online stuff, even though her son could run rings round her. She could do enough to get by, internet banking, online shopping, browsing, all the usual, it was all she needed. But no one else in the family had ever got themselves signed up on a Greek dating website, had they?

  ‘Mark, darling,’ she began tentatively, as her husband came into the kitchen. ‘You know I love you, don’t you, so don’t be worried about what I’m about to show you, OK?’

  Once he saw the messages, Mark couldn’t keep a straight face. ‘What exactly have you been up to, my lovely? Is being married to me really so bad, that you feel the need to go off and get yourself a Greek boyfriend?’ He sat down beside her and put his arm around her.

  ‘You could stop taking the mickey out of me and help me,’ she said dejectedly.

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll get you sorted out. I think we need Archie, don’t you?’ Alex agreed.

  ‘If you’re looking for Archie, he’s watching the Facup,’ Bertie said, barging into the kitchen.

  Alex and Mark looked at one other in horror. How on earth had their youngest son picked up such atrocious language? Surely Archie would never have taught his innocent little brother words like that?

  ‘Sorry darling?’ Alex needed to make sure she hadn’t been hearing things, but hoped the same words wouldn’t come from his little mouth a second time.

  ‘The Facup. You know, the football. On TV.’

  ‘Oh, the FA Cup. Of course, silly me.’ Alex giggled with relief, mouthing ‘phew’ to Mark. ‘Could you go and ask him to come in for a minute, darling.’

  ‘Honestly, he had me worried there for a moment,’ Mark said.

  ‘If you ask me, he’s right,’ Alex said. ‘The way some of them play is a complete Facup.’

  They were still laughing when Archie appeared.

  ‘OK, Mum, what have you got yourself into this time?’

  ‘Your mother’s signed herself up for Greek internet dating,’ Mark replied.

  Her son would dine out on this story for weeks to come. Oh, the shame of it.

  Twelve – Margaret and Bruce

  August 2015

  Bruce hadn’t been keen to go for therapy. Margaret thought it was an age thing. And a man thing, too. Men weren’t good at sharing, older ones even less so than Mark’s generation. Bruce really did belong to the Stiff Upper Lip era. She supposed she did, too, to a certain extent, although her stay at Mark and Alex’s house had done a lot to make her open up to her emotions more than she used to. A few years ago she would probably have turned her nose up at seeking help, just like Bruce was doing now.

  ‘Why do we need someone else poking around in our lives? We’re back together, aren’t we, and everything is fine, now, isn’t it?’ he’d said.

  ‘Yes, everything is ‘fine’, as you put it,’ Margaret said, ‘but for me, personally, I think it would help me come to terms with what happened to us this summer. I need some closure on it all.’

  ‘We know what happened. I was an idiot. I will tell you that every day for the rest of my life, if I have to, but I don’t want to go and tell it all to some mumbo-jumbo psyched-up head doctor. I don’t see the point. It’s private, it’s between you and me.’

  Margaret smiled at his description of the therapist. She thought he probably imagined they still wore white coats and were ready to lock you into a straight-jacket and cart you off to the asylum at the first sign of weakness.

  ‘Look, let’s go to the first session, and I promise you, if it doesn’t help, we won’t go back,’ she said. ‘But at least we will have tried. I know we’re both making an effort and things are good again between us, probably better than they have been in a while, but we need to get to the root of why this happened, don’t we?’ said Margaret.

  ‘It happened because I thought I was twenty years younger and I fell for flattery. She drew me in and I didn’t have the strength to say no,’ said Bruce. ‘I know what happened, and what’s more important, I know I’ll never do it again. I’ve learnt my lesson, Margaret. But I’ll come with you, because I want you to be happy, and have no regrets about taking me back. So we’ll do this.’

  The therapist was probably no older than twenty-eight, thirty at a push. Bruce wondered how on earth she could be expected to understand the problems of a couple who had known each other for almost twice as long as she’d even been on the planet. He sat down in the chair with a harrumph of disdain, resigned to the fact that this would be a complete waste of his and Margaret’s time. He folded his arms like a barricade across his chest and started to examine the books on the shelves. ‘Games People Play’, ‘Better Relationships’, ‘Understanding The One You Love’, ‘Addiction And The Modern World’. For goodness sake, he thought.

  ‘Pah,’ he said, to no one in particular. Margaret glared at him, her expression saying Try, please? For me?

  ‘Pah,’ he said again.

  The therapist’s name was Lucinda. She had the most soporific voice Margaret had ever heard. It was like being drizzled in melted chocolate. Margaret supposed it had to help, having a voice like that in a job like hers. You had to be able to make people listen to you, to want to listen to you. She could have been an actor, Margaret thought, with that voice and the long, dark hair and slim figure. There were a lot of similarities between actors and therapists, weren’t there? The ability to draw in your audience, hold their attention, say the right things at the right time.

  Lucinda welcomed them warmly, and from the moment she started to explain the proceedings, Margaret was amazed at the transformation in Bruce. She’d like to think he wasn’t shallow enough to be taken in by her looks and that caramel voice – but then wasn’t that the reason they were here today in the first place?

  ‘I’d like to see today – our first meeting – more as a celebration of your marriage and the fact that you have managed to reconcile your differences,’ Lucinda said, ‘rather than an examination of the reasons behind the problems you have had this summer. We’ll start by talking about how you met. Margaret, would you like to tell us about the first time you saw Bruce?’

  Margaret had expected to have to talk about how she felt when she found out Bruce had cheated on her, and in the days leading up to the appointment had given some thought as to how she would answer such questions. She hadn’t been prepared for this.

  ‘Oh, gosh,’ Margaret began. ‘Well, it was at a Law Society dinner. One of my university tutors had been nominated for an award, and I had been invited along, with a couple of other undergraduates from my year. We were about to go into our final year, so they thought we might make some good contacts, you see.’ Margaret knew she was giving unnecessary information, but she was nervous.

  ‘And Bruce was one of the waiters. He’d already graduated, and was in that gap between university and his first real job – he was going to work at the Stock Exchange in the autumn. But he’d got an empty summer ahead of him and was filling in with some work as a waiter, to earn a bit of money.’

  ‘So how did your paths cross exactly?’ Lucinda asked, hoping to bring Margaret back on track.

  ‘Well, he was serving our table. I spotted him across a crowded room, it was as corny as that. I hoped he’d be our waiter, and he was. When he came over with the starter, we got chatting. I think I nearly lost him his job!’


  ‘It’s not corny at all. Across a crowded room is how most people meet,’ Lucinda said, smiling. ‘Or at least, it used to be, until internet dating came along.’

  ‘Oh, is it?’ said Margaret. ‘I never knew that. But then, why would I, I suppose? So there he was, all dressed up in his dicky bow tie and looking very smart. He was a striking young man. Not handsome, really,’ she glanced at Bruce, who seemed surprised to hear himself being described like that. ‘What I mean is, not handsome in the traditional way that actors and TV personalities are. But he caught my eye. There was something about him. A presence.’ Margaret was surprised at how easy this woman was to talk to. They’d only met a few minutes ago, and here she was, telling her all these personal, revealing things. She couldn’t remember ever really commenting on her husband’s looks before, to him or to anyone else, other than to tell him he looked smart, if he was dressed up for a special occasion.

  ‘And how did you feel when you saw this striking man across a crowded room?’ Lucinda asked. Margaret thought that this question, from anyone else, would sound contrived and invasive, but from Lucinda, it seemed perfectly natural and she was keen to answer it.

  ‘When he looked across and caught my eye, I knew we were going to go home together that evening, and that was exactly what we did. I’d never been with a man in that way before, but I knew, with him, it was the right thing, and he wouldn’t judge me for giving myself to him, when we’d only just met.’

  ‘So you made love?’ said Lucinda. Margaret expected Bruce to jump from his seat in shock and indignation, but he seemed to be captivated by what his wife was saying, and sat quietly, waiting for her answer.

  ‘Yes. We did. My first time, although not his. Everyone always says the first time is a disappointment, but for me, it was the most wonderful thing.’ She took a tissue from her pocket and dabbed at the corners of her eyes.

  ‘Bruce, was it the same for you?’ Bruce hadn’t expected to be asked such an intimate question, not at this early stage, at least. He cleared his throat and shuffled uncomfortably in his chair.

  ‘Yes. Yes, it was,’ he said, his voice cracking. ‘I knew she was the woman I wanted to spend my life with. I knew at that very moment that nothing would stop us. We would have the world at our feet. It was like one of those nineteen-fifties films, where the cameras zoom in on the courting couple, and the rest of the world fades away. But of course, you’re far too young to remember those.’

  ‘I know exactly what you mean, Bruce,’ said Lucinda. ‘You’ve conveyed that very well.’ And then addressing them both:

  ‘I have a feeling it’s been a long time since you two have reminisced about your past?’

  ‘Yes, too long,’ said Bruce. ‘For a moment, there, I almost forgot how I’d felt about Margaret then. I still feel like that now, you know. When I think about what I stood to lose… I’m so sorry, Margaret. You are the love of my life. Always have been, always will be.’

  ‘So, I think we’ll be going back for session two, don’t you?’ Margaret asked Bruce as they drove home.

  ‘Oh, yes. She was wonderful. I don’t know how she does it, but she seems to have this knack of making you talk, doesn’t she? And it felt good to look back at days gone by. We should do it more often. Let’s get our wedding album out tonight, shall we?’

  Margaret smiled with relief. She’d had a suspicion that Bruce’s reservations about therapy would diminish as time went on, but she hadn’t expected such a quick result. She felt uplifted, and more hopeful for the future than she had ever been.

  He took his hand from the gear stick and reached across to hold hers.

  We’re going to be fine, Margaret smiled to herself.

  Thirteen - Tom

  August 2015

  ‘What the fuck does she mean, ‘your son’?’ Grace asked. Their son was outside, playing happily in the water with his sister and their teenage friends. Grace could see him from their window, splashing and shrieking, same as usual. He wasn’t ill, there was nothing wrong with him at all, so how could Sophie say something as sick as that? And then the penny dropped.

  ‘You have a son with her?’ The hurt was etched into her face; it broke Tom’s heart. ‘Why have you never told me this?’ She sat down on the bed, her body folding in on itself with shock and sheer disbelief. And betrayal. How could Tom forget to mention something as important as another child? With someone else, for God’s sake? Pretty fundamental stuff, tricky to forget about when you were having a heart to heart, surely. Her mind raced. If he’d had a son with Sophie whom he completely ignored, where did that leave Lily and Jack if anything ever happened to their marriage? What sort of person was a man who neglected his own son?

  ‘No, of course I don’t have a son with her. How could I? She never wanted kids, anyway. We talked about it, it was the one big thing we always disagreed on.’

  ‘But… then… Well, she certainly seems to think you do.’ Grace was lost, broken, didn’t know what to say or do. ‘You do what you need to do, Tom. Phone her back, find out what’s going on with ‘your son’. I’m going outside, my children need me. I’ll give you some privacy. Speak to her. Find out what the hell is going on. Get to the bottom of this.’

  Tom had never seen Grace look so hurt. Her body language as she stood up to leave the room tore huge holes in his heart. Damn that Sophie woman, how could she do this to them?

  ‘Grace, don’t go. I don’t have a child with Sophie, of course I don’t. This is the first I’ve heard of this so-called child of hers. Come on, do you really think I would have kept something like this from you? Stay here, I need you here. Please?’ He grabbed her hand but she pulled away. The fact that she closed the door quietly behind her showed him just how much this hurt; he’d almost have preferred her to shout and scream and slam the door in her wake.

  What was he supposed to do now? In a matter of a few minutes, Sophie had wrecked his nerves, wrecked his holiday, and he just hoped to goodness she hadn’t wrecked his marriage, too. The only thing to do was confront her, find out what kind of dirty tricks the woman was up to now. He dialled her number, heart in his mouth.

  ‘So, what the fuck is all this about?’ he yelled into the phone. ‘How can you be so sick and twisted? Even you, someone as low as you, how can you stoop to something like this? What are you trying to do, wreck my marriage?’

  ‘It’s Isaac, he’s got leukaemia.’ She started sobbing.

  ‘Who the hell is Isaac?’

  ‘Our son, Tom. Come on, keep up here.’ How she could be so flippant, when she was delivering such shocking news, was beyond Tom’s comprehension.

  ‘So, you have a son,’ Tom replied, with the emphasis on you. He almost felt like saying ‘congratulations’, although it wouldn’t be appropriate in the circumstances. If there really was a son, and he really was ill. Anything was possible with Sophie; she was the best liar he had ever met. ‘How old is he?’

  ‘He’s six. He doesn’t deserve this, poor little thing. He was diagnosed last week, He’s in Birmingham Children’s Hospital. They said they want to start chemo next week. My boy, my poor little boy, he doesn’t deserve this.’ Tom noticed he was suddenly her boy again.

  ‘That’s very sad, Sophie, and I’m sorry for you and Isaac. I hope he’s OK, it’s a terrible thing for a child to go through, for anyone to go through.’ He was trying his hardest to be sympathetic, but he knew if he said ‘Let me know if there’s anything I can do’, then she would come up with a list of stuff, just for starters. That had to be why she had called in the first place, because she needed help of some sort. With Sophie, everything was always about her.

  ‘He’s yours, Tom. He’s six. Do the maths, will you?’

  Tom was on the ball. ‘You’re lying, Sophie. Do you really think I would fall for that? If he really is mine, then why haven’t you told me about him before? Come on, you forget I know how your twisted little mind works. You’d have had me for years of maintenance, childcare, school fees, you name it, by now and, well, we
haven’t exactly heard much from you over the past few years, have we? Which is just the way we like it, thank you very much. So, I wish your boy well, really I do. No child deserves that. But you have to leave me and my family alone, now. We’re done, Sophie. Goodbye.’

  Before he could hang up the call, she came back at him. ‘I’ve seen your kids. Beautiful, they are. Little boy looks just like you. Well, you should see Isaac. He and that boy of yours could be twins.’

  That was it, he really was hanging up now. The woman was poison. It had to all be lies. Had to, for the sake of his own marriage and family. He couldn’t cope with this kind of news.

  Tom walked to the window. He could see Grace, sitting in the shade, watching her children. She was as white as a sheet, despite her tan, and her eyes wore a faraway look. The twins were still playing happily with Imogen, thankfully oblivious to the trauma going on with their parents. He looked at Jack. If what Sophie was saying was true, and Isaac really did look just like Jack, then… No. It was impossible. For one thing, when would Sophie ever have set eyes on Jack? She was mad, but she was no stalker – as far as he knew, anyway. She had moved from the area shortly after they split, so the chances of their paths accidentally crossing were minimal. She must be making it up, just to back up her claim. He hoped to goodness she hadn’t actually set eyes on his children; that would mean she was still around, somewhere, and probably knew where they lived. He was even more worried now.

  But… Now Tom was trying to do the maths. If Isaac was six then there was every possibility that he could actually be Tom’s, wasn’t there? But she was on the Pill, she always said she didn’t want children wrecking her body and her career. His mind was racing. Even now, he struggled to imagine her with a child, nursing a baby, bouncing a toddler on her knee. She just wasn’t the type. And although she sounded upset about Isaac’s illness, something didn’t quite ring true, did it? If that had been Grace talking about a sick child, then there would have been so much more emotion. Dammit, he couldn’t even begin to imagine anything bad happening to Lily and Jack without tears springing to his eyes and a lump forming in his throat. Where was the real emotion in Sophie’s voice? Very conspicuously absent, that’s what, and when she did turn on the taps, she sounded like she was running for the Best Actress award.