Second Chance

by Jane Green

‘You’ll like her,’ Marcus says. ‘She’s a fashion journalist, very outgoing, interesting, I think.’

  ‘It’s just that I don’t think Olivia’s expecting a proper dinner party,’ Holly says cautiously. ‘I think more of a kitchen supper, and it’s very last minute so I doubt anyone will be around. But we could try… How about Paul and Anna as well, then, if your friend’s wife is a fashion journalist?’ Marcus looks confused.

  ‘My other old school friends?’ she reminds him.

  ‘If you haven’t seen them for twenty years, how come you suddenly want to leap back into being best friends with all these people?’

  ‘I don’t,’ Holly says defensively. ‘But if Caroline’s a fashion journalist, Anna runs fashionista.uk.net, so they’ll probably have tons in common. I haven’t even met her yet – she was on a business trip so couldn’t make Tom’s memorial service – and I’d love to know what she’s like. Paul’s so easy, he gets on with everyone. They may not be able to come, but I’d love to ask them.’

  ‘Great idea!’ Marcus says, having read a profile of Anna just last week, and deciding on the spot that she is just the sort of person he ought to be mixing with, and Holly picks up the phone to call Paul.

  By six o’clock the children are bathed, fed, and mesmerized by The Incredibles on the DVD player in Holly and Marcus’s bedroom. The braised lamb shank is bubbling merrily in the Le Creuset in the oven, and the tarte Tatin is cooling off next to the stove. The table in the kitchen has been set with pretty Provencal-style blue and yellow linens, and Holly has checked her email only eight times since waking up this morning.

  On the eighth time of checking and finding nothing but dozens of junk emails offering to make her a fortune by investing in a Nigerian banking scam, provide her with Cialis, or enlarge her penis (this last she was tempted to forward to Marcus with a note, I believe this was meant for you, except she didn’t think he’d find it funny – but she used to forward them to Tom from time to time and he’d find similarly ridiculous emails on breast enlargement and natural Botox alternatives to send back to her), Holly puts her computer on standby.

  I am being ridiculous, she tells herself. Of course Will isn’t going to send me an email. This isn’t dating, for heaven’s sake. I am a married mother of two, and just because he confessed he had a crush on me over twenty years ago, it means nothing today.

  God, look at me, for starters. I have boobs that practically swing around my ankles when I walk, my stomach is covered in stretch marks, and if it weren’t for my trusty tweezers I’d probably have a handlebar moustache. Of course he doesn’t fancy me. He wasn’t flirting, I was just reading too much into it, and isn’t it just like me to think I have to fancy someone just because they fancy me?

  Not that he does fancy me, which is perfectly clear, because if he did he would have responded to my last email by now. I will not check this email any more. Will is lovely, but he’s Tom’s brother, which is probably what this whole thing is about. Less about Will than about having a connection to Tom. This isn’t a real feeling and I know, I absolutely know, that this will pass.

  These thoughts fly around Holly’s head and, with a sigh of relief – now she understands – she turns her computer off firmly and walks downstairs to get ready for supper.

  ‘She’s gorgeous!’ Holly whispers to Olivia as they emerge from the basement – or, as Marcus would call it, the wine cellar – with another couple of bottles. ‘I feel so dowdy next to her.’

  Holly colours immediately as they walk into Caroline, standing at the top of the stairs just outside the kitchen, but Caroline leans forward with a conspiratorial whisper. ‘She definitely has the whole winter look going on perfectly. Did you see her Chloé bag? That thing’s impossible to get – waiting lists for months, unless you run Fashionista.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ Holly tries to get her foot out of her mouth. ‘You’ve never even met me before and here I am, gossiping.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it in the slightest,’ Caroline says, and Holly and Olivia relax. ‘Fashion’s all about gossip – what a boring world it would be without it.’

  ‘Well, then… I know this is a terrible thing to say, but I feel slightly embarrassed about my house.’ Holly winces. ‘I feel like she ought to be sitting on a Conran sofa in a beautiful stucco house in Regent’s Park, not on my shabby old sofa that used to be my mum’s in my Edwardian house in Brondesbury.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Olivia chides her firmly. ‘First of all, your house is gorgeous – I’d kill for my house to look like this, and second of all, they live in Crouch End, for God’s sake. Hardly Regent’s Park. Anyway, we mustn’t judge a book by its cover. Everything Tom ever said about her was good. Caroline, you’ll know her reputation, what have you heard?’

  ‘She’s a witch.’

  ‘No!’ Both Holly and Olivia gasp simultaneously. Caroline starts laughing.

  ‘Of course she’s not a witch. She’s delightful. One of the most down-to-earth people in the business. All I’ve ever heard about her is good. Let’s go and talk to her properly.’

  Holly groans. ‘Oh do I have to?’

  ‘Stop it.’ Olivia grins. ‘I’ll start and you can join in.’

  But she doesn’t have to. As soon as they walk back into the kitchen, they find Anna with her shoes kicked off, sleeves rolled up, chopping the rest of the salad that Holly had abandoned to go and gossip with Olivia in the basement, and making a start on a salad dressing.

  ‘Oh Anna, you don’t have to do that!’ Holly is horrified. ‘Let me.’

  ‘I do not mind in the slightest.’ Anna smiles. ‘I grew up in Sweden until I was eight, and my family always mucked in to help out with the meals. This is exactly how I grew up, everyone in the kitchen and everyone helping out.’

  ‘But… I don’t want you to get your clothes dirty.’

  Anna leans towards her with a smile. ‘The beauty of having a fashion company is that you can always get a replacement for the clothes. Anyway, a bit of dirt never hurt anyone. I love this kitchen, Holly. I put in the white subway tile too, because I thought it would be clean and minimalist, but you know, it never feels cosy like this one does. This is the kind of kitchen where people just want to stay all day.’

  Holly’s face lights up. ‘That’s exactly what I always wanted.’

  ‘So where are the kids? Paul told me you had two. I would love to meet them.’

  ‘Upstairs, watching TV. Do you want to come up? I ought to get them into bed around now anyway.’

  ‘I would love to,’ Anna says, her language oddly stilted, even though there is barely a trace of a Scandinavian accent. ‘There. The dressing is done. Let us go and find those munchkins. Can I read the stories? I have three nieces who let me read the stories all the time. I’m particularly good at scary monsters.’

  ‘The kids would love it.’ Holly laughs. ‘Although Daisy’s current favourite is The Tiger Who Came to Tea. Not sure your monster voice would work.’

  On the way upstairs, Anna continues to compliment Holly’s taste, and Holly finds herself liking her more and more.

  Flattery, as they say, will get you everywhere.

  ‘You have created a real home.’ Anna turns on the landing to admire the antique game table, piled with books and knick-knacks. ‘I always remember something I once read somewhere that said, "Houses are made of sticks and stone, but homes are made of love alone.’ This is definitely a home. I am envious.’

  ‘Isn’t yours a home, then?’

  ‘It is beautiful but quiet. Too perfect. We need children running around to mess it up a bit, bring itto life.’

  Ah yes. There it is. The forbidden subject of children.

  ‘Oh do not worry,’ Anna puts a hand on Holly’s arm, ‘it is no secret that I am having IVF treatment. We keep telling ourselves that this will be the last time we try, and if we do not get pregnant we will adopt, but then I keep thinking that perhaps the next time is the magic time.’

  ‘I hope it wo
rks for you,’ Holly says. ‘I really do.’

  Anna smiles. ‘Thank you.’ And they walk through the door and find Daisy and Oliver sprawled out on the bed, all the pillows scattered around them on the floor.

  ‘She’s amazing!’ Holly whispers to Olivia, back downstairs.

  ‘Told you!’ Olivia smiles. ‘So it’s true what they say.’

  ‘What are you two talking about?’ Paul wanders over to get a refill of wine.

  ‘Actually we were just saying how much we like your wife.’ Holly grins. ‘How did you end up snagging a gem like her?’

  ‘God only knows. I ask myself the same question pretty much every day. I think most people see her and think she’s going to be cold and condescending – that whole Swedish icy-blonde thing – plus, of course, she always feels this enormous pressure to dress the part because people expect it of her, but she’s not at all who you expect.’

  ‘How did you meet?’ Caroline asks.

  ‘You won’t believe it, but I interviewed her for The Sunday Times.’

  ‘No!’ both Olivia and Holly speak at the same time.

  ‘Yes!’ Paul imitates them as they laugh. ‘I interviewed her and instantly knew I had found someone special. I kept calling her on the pretext of having forgotten questions, and then, of course, I had to meet her for coffees to fact-check, and in the end she said she’d really just prefer it if I came clean and took her out for dinner.’

  ‘I hope you took her somewhere fabulously smart and trendy.’

  ‘Actually no.’ Paul grins. ‘I took her to Nando’s.’

  ‘What!’ Caroline is horrified. ‘You took her to a fast-food chicken place? Please tell me you’re joking.’ Paul shakes his head. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘Because I wanted to see if she was really as down-to-earth as she seemed. It was great. She picked up that chicken with her fingers straight away and ate as if she hadn’t eaten in months. If I remember, she went back for thirds of the frozen yoghurt.’

  ‘I knew there was a reason I liked her!’ Holly laughs.

  Marcus raises his glass. ‘Here’s to Anna. Holly would have been livid if I’d taken her somewhere like that on our first date.’ The others laugh, and Holly grits her teeth at the lie – she wouldn’t have cared; it was Marcus who cared about things like that.

  ‘Where is she anyway?’ Paul frowns.

  ‘Reading stories to Daisy, who realizes she’s on to a good thing. First it was The Tiger Who Came to Tea, then a couple of Charlie and Lola books, and now she’s got her reading Cinderella, which goes on for ever. Not stupid, my daughter.’

  ‘Clearly,’ Paul says, smiling, but there is sadness in his eyes. ‘She adores children. She’d stay up there all evening if she could.’

  ‘I’ll go and get her in a minute,’ Holly says.

  ‘No, don’t. She’s having a wonderful time,’ Paul says, and sure enough, when Anna walks back in the kitchen, half an hour later, her eyes are shining and she is beaming from ear to ear.

  *

  The meal is a huge success, and by the time the tarte Tatin is brought to the table with vanilla ice cream, talk has turned to Tom.

  ‘I can’t imagine losing a son,’ Caroline says, shivering with horror. ‘There just can’t be anything worse than losing a child.’

  ‘What about losing your partner?’ Paul says. ‘Obviously I can’t speak about losing children, not yet, but I can’t think of anything worse than losing Anna.’

  Holly sits back in contemplation as the table continues to talk about the traumas of losing people you love. There is no question that there would be nothing more tragic, traumatizing and terrible for Holly than losing one of her children. But Marcus? How would she feel if she lost Marcus?

  When the London bombings occurred, one of them was close to Marcus’s office. Holly couldn’t get hold of him all afternoon, and she didn’t hear anything. She went through the motions of a wife in distress, but in truth there was only one emotion that she knew to be authentic if he had been one of the casualties.

  Relief.

  The talk turns to Sarah: how she has reacted so differently to the way they would have expected, how she will cope. And for a moment they all lapse into silence as they think about losing the person they love most in the world.

  And Holly starts to cry. Not because she’s thinking about Marcus.

  Because she’s thinking about Tom.

  Chapter Nine

  Saffron wheels her bag through LAX and waves hello to Samuel, P’s driver. He’s standing where he always stands, as reliable and discreet as ever, and Saffron has long got over the discomfort of Samuel knowing that she is the mistress. She is quite sure that she is not the first, and she tries not to think about whether she will be the last or whether, as she is hoping, P will eventually leave his wife and be where he belongs. With her.

  Heads turn as she strides behind Samuel to the car park. A few Brits recognize her, but it is more likely that they are looking because she is beautiful. Beautiful and clever, but not so clever that she knew not to get involved with a married man. Not so clever that she was able to resist the demons that even now are hovering just above her shoulder.

  Saffron was six years old when she met Holly. She was the new girl in school – a tiny, pretty blonde thing who walked into Miss Simpson’s classroom with a confidence and assurance immediately envied by Holly.

  They didn’t become friends. She fell in with one of the cool kids – how ridiculous it is now to think that even at that age there were cool kids, and that they all knew exactly who they were – and Holly sat with the clever kids on the other side of the classroom.

  Saffron, it turned out, was clever as well. She crossed the bridge between the groups, and as they grew older she gravitated towards Holly and Olivia, and the threesome worked, rarely degenerating into the bitchy scenarios that so often occur with pubescent girls.

  Saffron’s parents lived in Hampstead. Her mother was an architect and her father was a magazine editor, and they lived in a house that was so avant-garde, so unconventional, that Holly and Olivia begged to go over there on a daily basis.

  Saffron’s bedroom was the converted attic. It was enormous, with huge windows that had no curtains, and in the middle of the room was a see-through acrylic tube, which was actually Saffron’s shower.

  At one end was a sunken living room, complete with fuchsia velvet cushions and, during the teen years, a bong that she never bothered hiding. In fact, Saffron claimed she smoked with her parents, and even though Holly and Olivia had never seen it happen they were quite certain she was telling the truth.

  Because Saffron’s parents were the unlikeliest parents they had ever seen. They were… well, exotic is the only word that comes to mind. They were also hardly ever there. They still seemed to be madly in love and had no qualms about snogging in front of Saffron and her friends, none of whom had ever seen anything like it.

  Saffron and Holly bonded over their shared freedom although Saffron handled it differently. Where Holly was desperate for boundaries, for parents to be around, for someone to tell her what time to be home, Saffron thrived on the freedom, was enough of a free spirit to recognize that conventional parents would have suffocated her.

  Conventional parents might also have stopped her drinking.

  It seemed to be normal for all of them as teenagers. Perhaps Saffron had a little more than the others, but God knows most of them would get drunk or stoned when they went to parties.

  The difference with Saffron was that she would drink on her own. Not much, but a beer, or a gin and tonic if she was feeling particularly grown-up. Not to get drunk, just because it felt good, and if she wasn’t drinking, she’d have a joint; everyone was doing the same thing.

  And then, at university, she didn’t drink very much at all. Unlike her friends, most of whom were away from home for the first time and took advantage of the freedom by getting drunk every night, Saffron just made sure she had a steady supply of grass to help her wind down at t
he end of the day.

  Back in London, having got a first in English and drama, she started working, one of the lucky few to get immediate castings in TV ads. Drinking seemed to become easier in London but, still, never enough to get drunk, just enough to unwind, and even if it took a little more alcohol to do the trick, nobody ever saw Saffron drunk.

  She didn’t eat much during these years. Got very thin, although no casting director ever told her she was too thin. Her mother admired her jutting hip bones – very seventies, darling – and her friends expressed concern, but Saffron waved them away. She liked being this thin. Liked not eating. She felt clean and in control when she climbed into bed knowing she had eaten just fruit and vegetables all day; and the less of them she ate, the better she felt.

  Her career took off. A part in a TV series and a cleverly concocted fake romance with one of the hot young stars in film pushed her into the public eye, and soon she was one of the bright young things in London. She was also drinking more and more.

  Then the Sun printed an article about the celebs who were so thin they were disappearing in the public eye, and Saffron was the main focus. It still wasn’t enough to make her change.

  When Saffron moved to LA for a movie her agent insisted she go to rehab. She didn’t want to, nor did she want to lose the part. Rehab followed, and then intensive twelve-step meetings. AA was her lifesaver. If ever she felt lonely, or insecure, or just needed some company, she could turn up at one of the hundreds of meetings on her doorstep, and instantly feel as if she were at home.

  But it was more than just the company. She really lived the programme. She would sit at night writing a daily inventory, would start each day with prayer and meditation, was working her way slowly through the steps.

  She was doing what she was told to do: taking it a day at a time, learning to live and let live, learning that she couldn’t do it alone.

  It helped that the LA meetings were so glamorous. It made the work fun, and you never knew who you’d see at these meetings. Everyone in the industry, it seemed, whether they had a drinking problem or not, would turn up for the break in the middle – standing around the coffee machine, swapping business cards, handing out bios, talking shop, making deals.