by Ruth Jones
About the Book
The past has a habit of tracking us down. And tripping us up.
When Kate was twenty-two, she had an intense and passionate affair with a married man, Callum, which ended in heartbreak. Kate thought she’d never get over it.
Seventeen years later, life has moved on – Kate, now a successful actress, is living in London, married to Matt and mother to little Tallulah. Meanwhile Callum and his wife Belinda are happy together, living in Edinburgh and watching their kids grow up. The past, it would seem, is well and truly behind them all.
But then Kate meets Callum again.
And they are faced with a choice: to walk away from each other – or to risk finding out what might have been.
Second chances are a rare gift in life. But that doesn’t mean they should always be taken …
Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
1985
2002
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
1985
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
2002
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
2003
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
2017
Song credits
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
Never Greener
Ruth Jones
This book is dedicated to Lucy Matthews –
a passionate reader and wonderful friend.
Truly, though our element is time,
We are not suited to the long perspectives
Open at each instant of our lives.
They link us to our losses: worse,
They show us what we have as it once was,
Blindingly undiminished, just as though
By acting differently, we could have kept it so.
Philip Larkin
1985
Fergus was getting tetchy. The new girl should’ve been there at six. And now it was twenty past. A Saturday night at the height of the summer season was not a time to be short-staffed. He’d already roped poor Callum in to help. And obviously he’d rather be elsewhere. He looked over at him serving behind the bar and thought, as he often did, how good he looked for his age, definitely younger than his thirty-eight years. Fergus’s kid brother, Callum. Funny he still thought of him as the baby. Even though he was a towering six foot four. He watched him now, chatting easily to a couple of the locals. That was the thing about Callum. He was easy. With absolutely everyone. Whoever he was talking to – no matter who they were, their background, their age – he had this way of sounding interested. It’s what made him such a good teacher. And such a good dad. Fergus envied his brother’s enduring patience.
Callum was listening to old Stuey Jameson berating the latest goings-on in the news, putting the world to rights – Ach, how things’d be if he ran the show. It was part of the job, listening to the regulars – the old boys who staked their territory at the bar and refused to move, no matter how busy it got in the pub. Always sitting in the same place, on the same bar stools, drinking the same brand of bitter. Even in winter, when the place was sunk into sad hibernation and waves from the North Sea smashed relentlessly against the sand, hurling their beige foam high over the roofs of the seafront hotels; when the promenade was no longer peopled with ice-cream-holding holidaymakers – even then, in those dark, tradeless months, regulars like Stuey religiously came and sat at the bar, downing their pints in perfectly timed rhythm, to the tune of sparse, empty chat. Yes, Stuey and his like were the pub’s bread and butter out of season, and could never be taken for granted.
Fergus nodded at Callum and headed out to the beer garden. Where the hell was this barmaid? He knew it was a mistake taking her on. The girl – Kate something-or-other – had come to him last week when he was particularly busy. The daughter of a mate of a mate, looking for a holiday job and apparently a bit lively, but weren’t they all these days? Fancied herself as a bit of an actress. But didn’t they all these days? Fergus reckoned actresses were probably good with people, good at chatting to the likes of Wheezy Ron and Jackie Legg. And she’d had this smile. And before he knew it, there he was saying, ‘OK, come in on Saturday at six, let’s see how it goes.’ And looking at his watch, it was now six thirty-five. So it wasn’t going well at all.
He started clearing crisp-packet debris from one of the tables. A group of kids who’d made the mess whooped and cheered as Fergus deftly collected five pint glasses in each practised hand. One of the crowd, enthusiastic with drink, drained his whisky chaser and brought the tumbler down too hard, smashing it to pieces and eliciting more cheers and whoops.
‘Hey! You can cut that out RIGHT now, d’ye hear!’
Fergus took the glasses back to the bar. ‘Have a word with that lot, will you, Cal? They’re doin’ my nut in and it’s only half six.’ He handed him a dustpan and brush. ‘And where the hell is this girl?’
Heading outside to the rowdy crowd, Callum wondered again why Fergus had ever wanted a pub. He hated the hours, hated the customers and didn’t even like a drink! He started clearing up the broken glass. ‘Take it easy now, lads. My brother’s in a strop tonight and it’s me that’ll get it in the neck.’
‘Aye. Cheers, Cal.’
Callum’s gentle-giant demeanour was always a
calming force. Friends joked he should have worked for the UN. His quiet confidence and lovely-ugly-rugby-player soul made those around him feel safe. He never lost his temper and yet no one would ever want to get on the wrong side of him. His rugby days long gone, Callum’s body still bore the war wounds from years of playing on weather-beaten pitches, taking hit after hit in the scrum, battered by thousands of tackles, bashed, cut, bruised and scarred. He’d never been an oil painting in the traditional sense, but what made him so attractive was the fact that he didn’t know he was, his features now more rugged than the Scottish coastline he’d grown up on. And as Denise at the club often liked to say, no matter how old he got, Callum MacGregor would never lose his sexy-as-fuck factor.
‘Look boys – it’s magic!’ A voice came from behind them. An alien Welsh accent amidst the cacophony of Scottish. ‘Daddy’s got a pan and brush in his hands and he’s actually USING it!’
Callum beamed as he turned to see Belinda, his heavily pregnant, tenaciously blooming thirty-six-year-old wife, holding the hands of his two little sons, Ben and Cory. ‘Ey, watch it, you!’
‘Daddy, we’re goin’ the beach!’
Callum leant down and tickled Ben, making him squeal with delight. ‘Wish I was!’ He kissed Belinda softly on the cheek. ‘You OK?’
‘Oh y’know, so-so. Car’s out the front.’ She handed him the keys.
‘You sure you’re alright walking back?’
Belinda rubbed her tummy. ‘Yeah – the exercise’ll do me good. Might jog this one into getting a move on. Don’t reckon I can take another four weeks of this.’
‘Good curry – that’s what you need.’
‘No more kids! That’s what I need, Callum MacGregor. I’m never letting you near me ever again!’
Callum nuzzled discreetly into her neck, whispering, ‘And we all know that’s not gonna happen.’
Belinda caught her breath. He could still make her tingle even now, ten years down the road and on baby number three. ‘Behave,’ she whispered back, blushing. And scooping up Cory, who clutched his bucket and spade, she headed out, calling over her shoulder, ‘What time you back? Twelveish?’
‘Yeah, won’t be any later.’
He watched her go. Ten years older now than when they’d first met. Ten years wiser – if Belinda could actually be any wiser – and ten years more gorgeous, a child in each hand and another about to arrive. Yes, he looked at his wife and thought how very, very lucky he was.
If he could have replayed his life like a VHS tape, he’d have made it freeze-frame, put it on pause, and asked to pick up again from there. From that life-changing moment when he watched his beloved Belinda walk away and the whirlwind that was Kate Andrews come hurtling into his safe little world.
She was eating candy-floss.
She was twenty-two.
She was breathtakingly beautiful.
‘Alright, boys?’
The lads round the table were delighted. ‘Oi! Give us a bite!’
‘Sorry – I never share anything. Don’t know what I might catch!’ She winked at them, then headed indoors, not even noticing Callum, who still stood, pan and brush in hand.
Inside, the bar was getting busier. ‘Sorry I’m late. I went to the fair!’ Kate looked around for a bin and threw away her candyfloss stick. The annoyance on Fergus’s face was masked by the steam that poured out of the glass-washer. He’d like to sack her before she’d even started, but he desperately needed a barmaid. He knew Kate knew this.
‘Right. I’m not impressed. And if you’re this late again, you can forget the job. Now get these glasses stacked and start serving. It’ll be eight deep in here in an hour.’
Callum went behind the bar and grabbed one of the many pint glasses being thrust his way from the other side.
‘The Seventy Shilling needs changing …’
‘I’ll do it,’ Callum offered.
‘No, you’re alright, just do me a pint for Alec, will you?’ And Fergus was off to the cellar.
‘OK, who’s next?’ Kate beamed at the sea of customers, seemingly unbothered by Fergus’s ticking-off. A chorus of thirsty voices each claiming their turn.
‘Is he always that miserable?’ she asked Callum as she began serving. It was the first time she’d spoken to him and all Callum could think about was the fact that her bare arm was touching his as they pulled their pints of lager in unison.
In defence of his brother, he tried to sound pissed off.
‘You were forty minutes late.’
‘Ha! You sound like a teacher!’ Kate laughed.
‘That’s because I am one.’
‘You’re kidding!’ Kate stopped, pint in hand.
‘No. This is just … well, I help Fergus out when it’s busy.’
She turned, noticing him for the first time. ‘Where d’you teach?’
‘St Mary’s down the road – top juniors.’
‘Ah, we used to play them in netball.’
‘Which school did you go to then?’
‘Other side of town. North Park on the Queensferry Road.’ Her smile was mesmerizing. ‘I’m Kate, by the way.’
‘I know.’
She held his gaze.
Five hours later, she was astride him, her lacy knickers discarded on the sandy ground beneath their feet and her little denim skirt confidently pulled up. The wooden slats of the shelter’s bench groaned along with every thrust, joining in. She sat facing him, taking all of him in, relentlessly delighted to feel him inside her, as if discovering sex for the first time. But she was too well versed in what she was doing for this to be the first time. She stopped for a moment to catch her breath and held his face, disbelievingly – ‘Jesus!’ His smile spread slowly, then, without warning, he picked her up in one deft movement and pushed her against the wall. She whispered ‘Yes’ and he carried on fucking her. ‘God, you’re good.’
What are you doing? The question flashed through his mind but he swiftly ignored it.
They came together. Stood there indecorously, his jeans around his ankles, her legs around his waist and the North Sea pounding. Suddenly, over the yelling of the waves, they heard singing: a drunken voice, getting closer. ‘I’m ne’er ginna dance agin, Guilty feelin’ got nae rhythm.’
‘Shit!’ Kate giggled. Callum covered her mouth with his hand. Which turned her on even more.
‘Don’t move!’
She didn’t. Nor did Callum. She buried her head in his neck as the well-oiled George Michael tribute act turned the corner at the other end of the shelter, leant up against the wall, unleashed his tackle and had an almighty pish. It seemed to go on forever, accompanied by bursts of ‘Shoulda known better than to cheat a friend …’
Kate, still amused, started biting Callum’s palm. Every second that passed, they waited for the man to look up and see them, but he was oblivious. When he eventually finished, he shook himself down, tucked himself in and stumbled away.
Kate whispered, ‘D’you think he—’
‘Not a thing.’
But from a little way off came a shout. ‘G’nigh, pal. Nice arse, by the way.’ And Kate collapsed in giggles.
It was nearly one a.m. when he drove her into the city centre, tatty bits of Body Shop make-up messy in her lap. The vanity mirror was down and she was scooping her hair up into a scrunchy. She had big rich glossy brown curls, masses of them. He wanted to put his hands through them again, bury his face in them and inhale.
She saw him looking. ‘Oi, keep your eyes on the road.’
He smiled and did what he was told.
Shaking a blue mascara wand into action, she began topping up her lashes, mouth open in concentration.
‘How old are your kids?’
‘Who says I got kids?’
‘You gonna tell me you haven’t?’
He smiled. ‘Three and five. And there’s another one on the way.’
‘Christ, you been busy. No wonder you need the extra cash.’ She was onto lipliner now. Callum stole a gl
ance as she meticulously lined her fleshy lips with confident expertise. She knew he was watching again. ‘I can do this with my eyes closed, y’know. It’s my party trick.’
‘Bet you couldn’t do someone else’s.’
She smiled. ‘Just here’s fine. I’ll walk the rest.’ And she swept up her make-up and shoved it into her little beaded bag as Callum stopped the car.
‘You sure you don’t want me to take you home?’
‘It’s a Saturday night in Edinburgh, man! Remember those? Nightclubs? Curry houses? Hangovers the next day? You’re not that old.’
‘Thirty-nine next month!’
She smirked at him and got out of the car. ‘Thanks for the lift!’
He watched as she walked away. And then, as if remembering something, she turned on her heel and came back to his side of the car. He wound down the window and she leant inside to kiss him.
Jesus, those lips, he thought.
She looked him straight in the eye. ‘You. Are going. To break my heart, Callum MacGregor.’ And she was off again, banging the roof of the car as she left. ‘Toodle-pip!’ This time she didn’t turn around.
He tried to take in what had just happened. Was it some kind of set-up, an elaborate joke played by one of the boys at the club? No. This was no joke.
And then it came.
The guilt.
Belinda.
He took a deep breath. Where would he say he’d been tonight? For the briefest of moments, he thought about telling her. What? Fuck, no. How could he even think that was a good idea?
Went up the club, had a bit of a lock-in.
Gary would cover for him. He owed him more than one favour on that front – Callum was always covering for Gary. Christ, is that what he’d become now? A rugby-club-shagger bore?
In the distance he saw Kate join a group of friends, laughing. One of them picked her up and swung her round. Callum turned the key in the ignition and his car pulled away. He was headed home. Ready to start lying.
2002
1
‘I fell for him so hard. It was like riding a bicycle really fast down a very steep hill and realizing my brakes weren’t working.’ Kate Andrews – now thirty-nine, tearful, smartly dressed and more stunning with age – was talking to a therapist, hands crossed neatly in her lap.