A Place for Us

by Harriet Evans

  Bill said again, “I’ll take you.”

  “Don’t joke with me,” she said, almost crying. She pulled her suitcase out of the back so swiftly that Bill didn’t have time to get it, and she nearly hit him with it as he leaped forward to try to take its bulk. The car engine revved and she stepped back, exhausted.

  “Screw you! You jerk!” she shouted at the taxi driver as he sped away, tires screeching. He beeped his horn, aggressively and long, as he passed out of the village and up the hill, and Karen turned to Bill. “Look,” she said brokenly, “I’m going home to Mum. I have to get there soon. Otherwise . . .” She paused, wincing.

  “Otherwise you’re going to have the baby in the street,” Bill said.

  “It’s not that,” Karen said. “It’s not coming just yet.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” he said.

  “How the hell do you know?”

  “Well . . . I’m a doctor. I do know some things, Karen.” His arm tightened gently on hers. “Look, come ho—come back to New Cottages.”

  “No, Bill!” she said, raising her voice. “I’m not coming back with you! I’m not!”

  An old man, passing slowly on the other side of the narrow street, looked over curiously, then stared straight ahead.

  “I’m not trying to kidnap you. I just mean so that you can sit down, have some ice. I’ll check you over and we’ll see what to do next. Okay?”

  He held out his arm. Karen stared at the pub, at the long, narrow stairs leading up to the flat. Maybe she should go back up there, plonk herself down on the sofa for the rest of the day, and wait for Joe to finish work this evening, then act like none of this had happened.

  She couldn’t. No matter how mad it seemed, now that she had decided upon this course of action, she had to keep moving. “I’m leaving Joe,” she said, taking Bill’s arm, and they set off, Bill pulling her suitcase. “I know this isn’t the best way to have this conversation, but it’s not going to work out, us living together like that.”

  She didn’t know what he’d say to this, and she supposed he had the right to say anything, but he stopped and said mildly, “Well, good that you realized it now, I suppose. What does he think?”

  Karen ignored this. “I think it’s best if I go back to Mum’s. Then see what’s what.”

  “Right,” Bill said. “That seems sane.”

  “Don’t make fun of me,” she said quietly. A tear rolled down her cheek.

  Bill stopped pulling her case. He stood in front of her on the narrow pavement and wiped the trembling tear away with one finger and said softly, “I’d never do that, Karen. I’m sure you’ve made the right decision. You always were good at rational thinking. Most of the time. Keep walking.”

  She remembered why she’d liked him so much at the start—he’d never been threatened by her, where so many men were. That she could work out the tip on a bill faster, could drive better, drink more, strategize better. That first year they’d been dating, he’d bought her The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People and read it out to her on holiday in the Seychelles while she sunbathed with the dedication of a pro.

  And she remembered too how much they had both loved her tanned, glowing body, slick with cream, and the hot, lazy afternoons with cool wind blowing in through the room as they made love for hours, each as surprised as the other by how close, how good it felt to be together, how right it was. His kind, steady gaze on her, his huge smile that broke over him after they’d finished, his boyishness. He really was a little boy in so many ways, pretending to be old and grown-up, but really wanting approval, wanting to make people feel better.

  He’d asked her to marry him in Bristol, at the top of the Cabot Tower, overlooking the whole of the city. And afterward they’d walked down past a playground, and he’d sat on a swing while she’d fastened her shoe, and she’d seen him there, clutching the cold chains of the swing, feet scuffing the ground, watching her with this look in his eyes, so happy and smiling and warm, swaying gently back and forward. So hopeful. So glad.

  Karen blushed, pushing the thoughts away. “So, how have you been, Bill?” she said as they progressed slowly up the street, Bill carrying her small case.

  “I’m well, thanks. Been busy.”

  “How was Italy? You were there, weren’t you?” She leaned on him, grateful for the strength of his right arm.

  “Yes, four days. It was great, actually. Didn’t do very much, just pottered around. Flo’s flat is wonderful.”

  “Is she glad about the court case?” Karen asked.

  “Oh, she’s much more pleased than she lets on. Some TV producers want to make a pilot with her. Don’t you think she’d be wonderful on TV?” Bill smiled. “I can see her, waving her arms around in front of some painting, can’t you?”

  One foot in front of the other, slowly and surely. Already Karen felt calmer. “Yes,” she said. “She’d be absolutely great.” She added, “Good for Florence. I’m so happy for her.”

  “Me—me too. We’ve just worked out Skype, you know. It’s great. She’s coming back for a visit in August, and Ma’s already worked up about it.”

  “Is she? Why?”

  Bill hesitated. “Long story. Daisy . . . you know. Dad . . . all of it.” He looked at her, and a sweetly sad look came into his eyes. “Some other time.” She didn’t have the right to hear any more about his family, about Winterfold, she knew. “I think Flo pretends to like being alone, but she doesn’t, not really.” He stopped. “I don’t think anyone does.”

  They were silent for a few minutes. As they passed the church, Bill cleared his throat delicately.

  “So, does Joe know you’ve left him?”

  “No.”

  “Shouldn’t you tell him?”

  “I’ve left him a note.”

  They were back at their old home. “I’m sure you’re right, Karen. But I don’t know why you have to leave today, this very minute.” Bill opened the door and she went in, grateful for the front room that had always seemed so poky and was now welcomingly cool and fresh.

  She heaved herself onto the sofa. “I have to get to Mum’s before the baby’s born. Otherwise I’d have been there—been trapped there, above that pub. I wouldn’t have been able to get away.”

  Bill stood in front of her, chewing a finger, and he said quietly, “Of course you would. Do you really think that?”

  “Yes,” she said sharply. “Look, Bill, thank you, but can you just get me a glass of water and the keys and we’ll go? Oh. Oh . . .”

  She turned on the sofa, sliding herself slowly onto the ground until she was on all fours, eyes squinting, trying to focus on the shelves, counting anything she could in an effort not to scream at the splitting pain that seemed to twist her in two. She didn’t care where Bill was, whether he was watching her. It seemed to last for an age, and when it was over, she sat back on the sofa again, light-headed, clammy, legs sticking out in front of her like a child’s.

  Bill put a glass of water in front of her on the cool glass table.

  “Karen, will you let me examine you?”

  “What?” She blinked. “No! No way.”

  He grinned. “Why do I keep having to remind you that I’m a doctor, Karen? You were always complaining about me working too hard, you’d think you’d remember why I wasn’t around.”

  “I don’t care. You’re not—” She stifled a moan of pain.

  “Oh, my love.” He looked at her with concern. “I really do think you’re in labor, you know. I’ve seen plenty of contractions in my time. That was a contraction. Has your water broken?”

  She shook her head miserably. “No. It’s all fine. I just need you to—” But her voice cracked into a whisper.

  He crouched down in front of her. “I’ll take you there.”

  “To Mum’s?”

  “No. To the hospital. Here in Bath. T
he RUH. And after that, I’ll drive you to your mum’s. Promise. If that’s what you want, I’ll pack up your stuff, I’ll collect you and the baby and drive you over. It’s two hours, three hours. Please, don’t keep worrying about that.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “You’re my wife, Karen,” he said, and there was a catch in his voice.

  “You mean because this is your kid according to the law.” Karen buried her head in her hands.

  Bill shrugged. “No, because we’re not divorced yet and I promised to love and protect you. That’s why.” Karen looked up, and thought she’d never realized before how much he looked like his father. “I still love you. Don’t worry, it’s not a big deal, I’ll get over it at some point. But I want to look after you because you need some help and you’re—you’re having a baby. It’s a wonderful thing, whatever the circumstances.” He picked up his car keys. “Will you trust me?”

  “Why are you doing this?” She wiped the clammy nape of her neck.

  “Because . . . well, what I just said.”

  “Oh.”

  “And because I—I didn’t do enough when we were together. I was too . . . too stiff. Not enough like my dad, you know.” He rolled up his sleeves. “But don’t let’s think about that now. You’ve got enough on your plate.”

  “That’s nice of you, Bill.” She wanted to tell him how sorry she was. How she’d got them all wrong, called them snobs, and she was the snob. How much she wished she could be a part of it all again, only—she shook her head, waiting for the next wave of pain.

  “Come on, then,” he said.

  “Just give me a minute. Let me sit still for just a moment.”

  He smiled and sat down next to her. “You know,” he said conversationally, “I’ve been thinking of moving back to Bristol anyway. I always liked it there.”

  “I like Bristol too. . . .”

  She thought afterward she’d heard a soft, high pop, but she must have been mistaken. But suddenly there was water everywhere, gushing onto the floor, coming out of her like a torrent. She rubbed her tired eyes, tried to stand up. “Look—oh! Oh, no, I’m so sorry. Oh, God. I’ve peed all over the sofa. Oh, my God! Oh, my flaming God!”

  Bill looked down. “No. But now your water has broken. I told you you were in labor. Let’s go.”

  She sat still for a moment. “The sofa’s ruined! I loved this sofa!”

  “I hated it,” he said.

  Karen glanced away from her stomach. “What? We bought it at the leather workshop sale! You said you loved that color.”

  “It’s slippery, and it doesn’t fit in here. Nothing really fits in here.” Bill put his jacket on and jangled his keys in his pocket. “Come on, then,” he said calmly. “I’m making no promises, but I’d say you’ll be a mum by teatime.”

  “Bill . . .” Karen looked down at the mess of her water, the immaculate sofa and floor awash in sticky gloop. “Thanks.”

  She wanted to say more, wanted to tell him how he’d broken her heart, slowly driven her away, how she’d loved him so much. But of course she couldn’t, not right now. “I—I never meant to hurt you,” she said, and then she smiled. “You know? That’s crap. I did want to hurt you. I wanted you to notice me.”

  He was bending over to pick up her bag, and at that he straightened up, his expression tight. He said in a small voice, “I always noticed you.”

  “You didn’t, Bill. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, but you nearly sent me mad. You did!” She was laughing, through her tears.

  “Oh.” Bill swallowed. He closed his eyes briefly, as if in pain, and nodded. “I expect I did. I got used to doing my own thing when I was growing up, as Lucy keeps pointing out to me. I had to. I’ve changed, anyway. Hope so.”

  She put her hand on his arm. “Bill. I shouldn’t have said it, now’s not the time, let’s—”

  “It’s the perfect time.” His sad, sweet face broke into a smile. “Karen, come on, stand up—otherwise I’ll carry you to the hospital myself and very likely you’ll have to give birth in a hedge. I won’t leave you. Let’s worry about the rest of it all later. Deal?”

  “Deal,” Karen said. They nodded, smiling at one another, and then Bill heaved her to her feet and slung her bag over his shoulder, and they left the house, shutting the door on the ruined sofa, the immaculate front room, and the plastic gerberas, the home that had never quite worked for them.

  Cat

  July 2013

  “I THINK A surprise party’s a terrible idea,” said Cat, finishing her coffee. “Isn’t it a bit much, having a party that says basically ‘We love you even though it turns out you’re adopted and you don’t know where your mother or your father is’?”

  “No!” said Lucy, outraged. “Cat, where’s your sense of soul?” She leaned across the kitchen table and pulled the butter dish toward her. “Listen, it’ll be great.” She began vigorously buttering her toast. “A welcome-home party, you know? A big banner and everything. For you and Luke, too. Dad can come, with Bella and Karen. Everyone together.”

  “What would it say? WELCOME HOME, EVERYONE?” Cat said, trying not to laugh at Lucy’s enthusiasm. “AGAIN?”

  “Exactly.” Lucy looked at her. “Oh, you’re taking the piss.”

  “I’m just not sure . . . does Florence want a big banner saying, ‘Hi, you’re adopted’? What about Karen?”

  “Hmm,” said Lucy. “Karen doesn’t notice anything these days other than Bella.”

  Cat knew from Facebook that two-month-old Bella Winter (she had Bill’s name, and Bill was certainly featured prominently in all the photos) was a gorgeous little thing, although according to Lucy she didn’t sleep and was already showing signs of taking after her mother, in that she was extremely determined and spent a lot of time glowering at you, when her eyes were open.

  “I bet your dad doesn’t mind.”

  “He doesn’t, actually. You know Dad. But”—Lucy lowered her voice—“they’re doing a paternity test.”

  “Really?”

  “He said he has to know if she’s his or not. I don’t think he’ll mind if she’s not his. I mean . . .” They looked at each other. “Ugh, well, let’s not get into the merits of my father’s . . . reproductive stuff versus Joe Thorne’s. It doesn’t bear thinking about. Oh! Completely ick. Let’s move on. So I thought a nice welcome-back party for Florence and at the same time we can all say hi Bella, et cetera.” Cat put her head on one side. Lucy said, “Well, I like it. Maybe we make it a christening party instead. I’m going to suggest it to Gran when she gets back from London.”

  “How long’s she there for?”

  Lucy shrugged. “She said two days. She has to approve the exhibition, she said. I don’t believe her, though.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t know. Sure it’s nothing serious. She’s so different now.”

  “Yes, she is,” said Cat. “Even from before, when Southpaw was alive. It’s strange, isn’t it? I can’t think of the word.”

  “So . . .” Lucy buttered her toast, and gazed out of the window. “So light-hearted. That’s what it is. Poor Gran.” They were both silent, and then she said, “Look how lovely it is outside. I think it was a great idea of mine, having a staycation here.”

  “Brilliant,” Cat said. “Oh, Luce, it’s lovely to see you again.”

  She dipped the last of her bread into her coffee, to hide the tears that sprang to her eyes. Everything made her cry these days, these last few months. As if she was making up for the years of control. She cried at the news, at a dead bunny rabbit by the road. She cried when the teacher at Luke’s new nursery said he was a “sweet, kind boy.”

  “Me too, Cat. Do you miss anything about Paris?” Lucy said thoughtfully, chewing her toast.

  “Proper croissants. And Petit Marseillais shower gel. That’s it.” She hesitated. “No
t really. I do miss it, I suppose. I miss—something in the air. The feeling of walking through the streets first thing in the morning, there’s something about it that’s magical; you could sense it, even on the worst days.”

  Lucy said, “Well, we should go back there someday. I’d love to go to Paris properly. You could show me the sights.”

  Even though she was younger, Lucy always knew what to do, always had since they were little. There was such comfort in that. “That’d be a great idea, actually. I don’t want Luke to forget that part of his life.” She hesitated, her mouth suddenly dry. “I want him to remember he’s half-French, even if he never sees Olivier again.” It was the first time she’d said his name in a long time, and it surprised her, how little weight it carried. She was strong now.

  She glanced into the window and smiled. The two cousins sat opposite each other, in the same position as they had done all their lives: Lucy hunched over her food, feet on the bar of the chair, licking the crumbs off her fingertips; Cat in the worn blue chair she always sat in, her elbows spread-eagled on the table, fingers pressing into her cheeks, watching her cousin, younger, brighter, irrepressibly more alive than she.

  “Do you know,” she said suddenly, “Luke asked me what my favorite song was yesterday, because Zach’s favorite song is “Firework” by Katy Perry, and everything Zach does is apparently perfect. And I didn’t know what to say. I had to go upstairs and look through an old box of CDs to remember what music I used to like. It’s as though . . . oh, I blame myself, but he really did strip me down to nothing, Olivier.”

  “Why on earth do you blame yourself ?” Lucy demanded. “It was an abusive relationship, Cat. Don’t smile and shake your head. It was. How on earth can you blame yourself ?”

  Cat felt a red flush rising up her neck, and she crossed her arms and gave a twisted smile that she hoped didn’t look as bitter as she felt. “You always do, Luce, no matter what everyone tells you. You just do.” There was a gentle breeze at the window, honeysuckle and roses, and she stood up. “I have to go to work. Are you sure you don’t mind picking Luke up from Zach’s?”