by Fiona Gibson
‘Yeah – that’s probably it,’ she says, laughing bitterly now. ‘I see birds flying around with bras dangling from their beaks all the time.’
I chuckle as I turn down her narrow unlit lane. ‘Well, stranger things have happened. Or, you know how things get stuck to your shoe sometimes?’
She smirks as I park next to the rusting yellow van. It strikes me, not for the first time, that Gary could get off his lazy arse and pick up his wife after a lengthy shift.
‘I bet that’s it,’ she exclaims. ‘I’m living in the middle of nowhere, where’s there’s underwear strewn all over the place – and it got tangled up in my heel.’ She laughs dryly. ‘What are the chances of that?’
I smile at her, then glance out at the cottage that’s silhouetted against the haze from the moon. ‘Well, I’m sorry things aren’t great between you and Gary. I do know how that feels …’ I hesitate. ‘I mean, sort of. But it’s been nice talking to you tonight. You’ve cheered me up, so thank you for that …’
Tanzie musters a grin. ‘And you enjoyed your dirty burger.’
‘Yes, I really did!’
Her smile settles. She is unconventionally pretty, I decide, with those striking green eyes and the oddly-tinted hair. I find myself wondering what colour it is really, probably because no other woman I know would choose that kind of shade. ‘Nice talking to you too,’ she says. ‘Sorry about going on a bit. About the bra, I mean. I do tell my friends this kind of stuff, but sometimes I get the feeling they’ve heard enough, you know? About me and Gary, I mean. I s’pose there’s only so many times they can tell me to leave him, and for me not to do anything about it …’
‘I guess so,’ I say, feeling rather out of my depth now.
‘Maybe I should write a list of his faults?’ she asks with a wry smile, then seems to catch herself. ‘Sorry, Nate. I know it’s not funny …’
‘It’s fine,’ I say, truthfully. ‘And, please, if you’re ever stuck for getting home – I mean, if you miss a bus, or are going to have to wait ages, you can just call me, okay? If I’m home, it’s not a problem …’
‘That’s so sweet of you,’ she exclaims, ‘but if I was really stuck, I’d just get a taxi—’
‘I’m just saying, if you need me, it’s fine.’ She looks at me as if she’s about to protest some more, then agrees to take my number and taps it into her contacts.
‘Okay,’ she says breezily. ‘I mean, I probably won’t ever call, but—’ She breaks off, then – startlingly – she throws her arms around my neck and hugs me.
I reel back, sensing myself blushing. ‘Well, enjoy the rest of your evening,’ I bluster, keen to escape now, back to Flynn – if he’s home by now – and Scout, and my quiet, undramatic house.
‘I’ll try to,’ she says. ‘And thanks again. You’re a good person, Nate …’ She flashes another grin as she climbs out of my car. ‘Considering you failed me all those times …’
I smile weakly. ‘Will you book another test, d’you think?’
‘Oh, I very much doubt it. Unless … would you be allowed to examine me?’
I laugh awkwardly at her choice of phrase.
‘Swing me a favour?’ she adds with a wink. ‘Be a bit more lenient now we know each other—’
‘You must know I couldn’t do that!’ I say, aghast.
‘I’m joking,’ she says, laughing.
‘Anyway, I add, ‘technically, we’re supposed to declare it if a candidate is a friend—’
She crooks a brow. ‘Are we friends now, then?’
I look up at her. So brazen and opinionated: she really is something else. But I have to admit, the prospect of bumping into her from time to time doesn’t exactly appal me during this particularly testing stage of my life. ‘If we go by the guidelines set out by the Driver and Vehicle Standards Agency,’ I reply, ‘then yes, I guess we are.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
Sinead
A week has passed since my evening with Brett, and we’ve just met up again. It was just a quick coffee this time, after another of his meetings at Brogan Mitchell Pies. I felt more nervy this time, not due to being with Brett; we chatted easily, and my heartbeat seemed to quicken when our hands brushed under the table. However, it was just gone six – town was still busy – and we were installed in a coffee shop right on the high street. Several people I know vaguely popped in for takeaways and said a quick hello. We hugged briefly just before we parted outside the cafe – Brett was driving home this time – and I found myself panicking in case anyone (well, Nate, really) might happen to spot us and leap to the conclusion that this strikingly handsome man is the real reason I walked out.
‘It’s great to be in touch again,’ Brett added with a warm smile.
‘It really is,’ I agreed, unable to stop myself from scanning the vicinity for any familiar faces. Then off he went, and with my head bowed, I speed-walked towards Abby’s, sort of relieved that she’d be on duty at the Lamb and Flag until much later. Although she knew I was meeting Brett, and wasn’t remotely judgemental, I was looking forward to a little time alone.
Brett and I have been texting and chatting most days – but where is this going, if anywhere at all? Of course, it would be way too soon for me to be dating – which we are definitely not. Flynn would be horrified, justifiably; anyway, I’m not remotely in the frame of mind to get involved with anyone right now. We’re just mates hanging out, and in some ways it’s precisely the right time to rekindle a friendship with someone from the past. There’s something about being with a person who knew the younger you – before mortgages, pension plans and all that – that reminds you that you were young once, and full of life, the kind of girl who’d concoct a cauldron of rocket-fuel punch for a spur-of-the-moment party.
Never for one minute have I regretted or resented anything I’ve had to deal with regarding Flynn. However, spur-of-the-moment anything hasn’t featured in my life for a very long time.
I let myself into Abby’s house. As I take off my jacket, my phone trills from inside my bag at my feet. I grab at it; Nate again. ‘Hi,’ I say, hoping he doesn’t detect the note of alarm in my voice. Did he spot me and Brett after all?
‘Hi, love,’ he says, sounding hesitant. ‘Look, I, um …’ He clears his throat. ‘I just wanted to catch you for a quick chat. Is it a good time?’
‘Er, yes, it’s fine. I’m just in.’ I wander through to the kitchen and fill the kettle.
‘Well, look – I just wanted to say, I’m so sorry about how I’ve been with you lately. Going off on one, I mean, when you were in the shop that time—’
‘That’s all right,’ I say quickly, wondering why he’s bringing that up now. We have talked several times since, about matters concerning Flynn: businesslike calls, conducted as swiftly as possible.
‘I know I can be a real idiot,’ he adds.
‘Honestly, it’s okay,’ I murmur, still a little surprised by his apology.
‘I really would like to see you,’ Nate adds. ‘I promise I won’t get on at you or give you a hard time. I’d just like to … talk, in a more relaxed way. Would that be okay?’
I hesitate, trying to picture us out together in a restaurant or bar. Should I tell him I’ve seen Brett for dinner and a coffee? I can’t imagine it would go down terribly well – but I’ll mention it when I see him, in case Brett and I are spotted out and about, and Nate gets to hear of it. After all, I have nothing to hide.
‘Yes, we can do that,’ I say cautiously. ‘I mean, go out somewhere, if you’d like to.’
‘Like to?’ Nate exclaims. ‘Of course I would! Shall we have dinner then? Somewhere a bit special?’
‘Oh, I don’t really know if—’
‘Is tomorrow night any good for you?’ he asks eagerly.
Oh, God, that soon? ‘Saturday would be better,’ I say. An extra day to build myself up for it.
‘Great! That’s fantastic. I’ll book somewhere then.’ He pauses. ‘I’m so pleased you’ve said yes. I k
now this is really hard for you, as much as it is for me. But I’ll make sure we have a lovely evening, okay?’ His voice cracks. I know he’s upset again, and that I am the cause, and I can’t help hating myself for it.
‘Okay,’ I murmur.
Our conversation falters, and I hear his intake of breath. ‘Oh, darling,’ he says, ‘I know I shouldn’t say this, but I’m so happy I’m going to be seeing you.’
*
Never mind a cup of tea right now. Instead, I am driven outside by a fierce desire for wine. There’s no corner shop near Abby’s; just the supermarket at the bottom of the hill. Here, I wander the aisles, choosing wine, then toothpaste, shampoo and shower gel so it doesn’t look as if I am just buying wine – as if anyone would care what’s in my basket. Without thinking, I toss in a box of tampons too, as I never seem to have any handy when I come on. It occurs to me then: when did I last have a period? It feels like quite a while ago – but then, perhaps all the upset has disrupted my cycle. Can sadness and guilt actually do that?
I stand there for a moment, trying to pinpoint precisely when it was – but nothing comes. However, I do remember the last occasion when Nate and I ended up making love, a few days before I left him …
A sense of dread creeps over me. Surely I can’t be pregnant. I’m too old for that. Never mind the fact that we’re not together and it would be an absolute disaster. I’m probably having an early menopause, I decide. It’s my body’s way of punishing me for walking out on my son.
Even so, I should find out for certain, just to put my mind at rest. Glancing furtively around, as if I am about to steal a bottle of conditioner, I drop a pregnancy test into my basket. Then, solely for concealment purposes, I place a packet of facial wipes on top.
Half an hour later I am standing alone in Abby’s bathroom, holding the plastic stick and staring at two pink lines in the window, thinking, it can’t be.
It really can’t. We have done it precisely twice in something like six months, the last time being one of those angry shags – when you’ve bickered and then it turns into a brief flurry of, if not passion, pretty intense feelings swirling around. Then, afterwards, you go to sleep back to back.
I glance down. I’m still clutching the white stick, wondering if I’m seeing things or interpreting it incorrectly. But it’s quite simple really. Either there is a second pink line, or there isn’t. And there is most definitely a line.
Dread washes over me when I realise how happy Nate’ll be, with smiles and hugs and tears, probably – and then devastated all over again.
Once upon a time, we wanted another child so much. This almost seems unfair – like winning the lottery the first time you buy a ticket, when your friends have had syndicates for decades – but then, it doesn’t feel like a win. Far from it.
Abby and her ex tried for most of their married life, spending thousands on treatments along the way. And here I am, seemingly pregnant and recently separated, too old for a baby and not remotely wanting another child now. Before all this mess happened, I thought I was a pretty decent person. I never realised I am capable of causing so much hurt. But I know in my heart, as I wrap the stick in loo roll and drop it into the bin, that I simply cannot have another baby with Nate.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Nate
Since I managed to persuade Sinead to come to dinner with me, I’ve felt slightly more optimistic about our future, to the point where I’m thinking: okay, perhaps it’s just a break she wants. Understandably, I realise now, she was sick to the back teeth of me being so shabby and neglectful. I’ve changed, though. Really, I have.
‘You’re making pretty good progress,’ Tanzie agrees as she skims through my printed-out copy of The List, which is now annotated with my various pencilled notes.
‘Thanks,’ I say as she hands it back to me. ‘It really helped, talking it through with you.’
‘Glad to be of service,’ she says with a wide smile. ‘It’s good to see you’re taking it seriously. I’m sure she’ll appreciate it, Nate.’
‘Well, I hope so.’ I sip my coffee, wishing she’d sit down with me for a moment – but of course, she’s working. It just seemed natural to pop in and see her for a catch-up, and it feels sort of right, having a new place to go to since my world turned upside down.
A tall, well-built man with slicked-back dark hair – her boss, I’m guessing – glances over from the counter area.
‘I suppose I hadn’t really understood what the real problem was,’ I add.
Tanzie nods. ‘You’d been focusing on the minor things …’
I nod. ‘When it wasn’t really about those at all.’
As she leaves my table to attend to a newly-arrived group, I skim through the list again.
You don’t listen to me.
You take me for granted.
You don’t consider my needs …
The above three, I feel, can be rolled into one. While they’re a little abstract, I hope Sinead will realise when I see her tomorrow night that I am trying to do my best as a husband and dad, after years of her feeling overburdened.
On the Flynn side of things, I took another day’s leave today to accompany him to an appointment (not that I am expecting gales of applause for taking my son to hospital!). A new kind of muscle relaxant is to be administered in the hope of easing the stiffness in his hand. At first, I could sense resentment radiating from him as I sat beside him in the consultancy room; but we got along better as the day progressed, and we stopped off to buy him some trainers, plus guitar strings, on the way home. It shames me now to realise how often Sinead has taken time off work due to Flynn’s numerous appointments, and it rarely occurred to me that perhaps I should do so more often.
No effort made re us as a couple …
This one, I am especially pleased about. I have booked a table for two at Elliot’s on the edge of town, and I know she’s going to love it.
You leave too much to me.
Tricky to address, seeing as we are not together at present, but if I can coax her back to the house after Elliot’s, then I hope she’ll be impressed by how smooth-running and gleaming everything is. I’m not expecting her to stay the night or anything; just that we might be able to prolong our evening for as long as possible.
You belittle my job and show no interest in it.
Topic number one, for our night out: does she regret giving up her jewellery business? How can I support her to get things started again, if that’s what she wants? I am considering writing an agenda to consult secretly when she nips to the loo.
No spontaneity in our lives.
Perhaps an agenda might highlight my lack of impulsiveness. However, I hope to plan something spontaneous for her forthcoming birthday (can ‘planning’ and ‘spontaneous’ go together? I guess I can bend the rules).
Your bloody record collection.
Now in Stan’s possession.
Your terrible attempts at DIY.
Now propped up in the garden and providing shelter for a hedgehog, as far as I can gather.
… and your blank refusal to get the professionals in.
As there’s been nothing I’ve needed a tradesman for, I have yet to be able to demonstrate my willingness to fork out enormous amounts of cash to have various jobs done. Perhaps I can think of something that needs attending to? Should we have an unnecessary new patio laid?
Handing me a wodge of tenners to buy my own Christmas present …
Mindful of this – and of the ill-chosen leopard skirt – I shall take extra care over selecting her birthday gift. Perhaps I could ask Tanzie to help me choose something? I look around to ask, but she is heading towards a table brandishing a tray laden with drinks.
Woolly boundaries re Flynn …
Whilst he’s ditched me – without warning – as his personal guitar tutor, we do at least seem to be rubbing along okay. Although I should probably address the Oreos-for-breakast issue, none of his teeth appear to have crumbled – yet. Anyway, now do
esn’t seem to be the right time to suddenly come over all stern Victorian father, if that’s what she means.
Mouse issue (traps!!!).
Carcass tally to date: eleven. Okay, so there wasn’t just the one …
You treat me like an idiot (i.e., always texting to remind me not to leave things on trains).
Our evening at Elliot’s will hopefully allow me to show her that this is not the case.
Don’t make me feel special.
Ditto …
On and on it goes. I’d like to consult Tanzie for more Sinead-pleasing suggestions, but now the diner is filling up with teenagers wandering in after school, and she’s far too busy, darting in and out of the kitchen with trays of food. Anyway, I should really go home and cook something nutritious for Flynn.
I pay for my coffee and thank her for listening yet again. ‘I meant to say,’ I add, beaming, ‘I’ve booked a table for Elliot’s for tomorrow night.’
She blinks at me and her face falls. ‘Aw, Nate – you should’ve said. I’m working this Saturday!’
‘Uh, no, I actually mean for Sinead and me,’ I bluster, sensing myself reddening. My God: has she got the wrong idea about us? I mean, I’m married (technically), and she lives with someone, and I’d never … I mean, I hadn’t even thought …
‘Of course,’ Tanzie murmurs, looking down at her flat boots. ‘I hope you have a fun night.’
I rub at my suddenly clammy forehead. ‘I’m sorry, Tanzie. Really, I am. I didn’t mean—’
Her face breaks into a grin. ‘I’m joking,’ she exclaims, laughing now. ‘God, Nate. Why d’you take everything so seriously? That’s brilliant. It’s meant to be lovely. Kayla’s been – her friend Paige’s parents took her for a family celebration—’
‘Well, I thought she’d like it,’ I say, still sweating a little.
‘Of course she will. Now you’re getting it, aren’t you?’
‘I hope so,’ I say, realising as I leave that I didn’t ask if she found out who owned that pink bra. Although I don’t want her to think of me as an unthinking arsehole either, perhaps the middle of her shift in the diner was neither the time nor the place to bring it up.