Never Greener

by Ruth Jones

  Above the gallery was a fabulous studio space, big and light and airy, which Matt rented out to local artists for a nominal fee. Its current inhabitant was Chloe, an intense-looking Brummie with candy-pink hair who wouldn’t say boo to a goose but did amazing things with pastels. Matt had sold one of her creations only last week – a riot of greens and blues depicting the mossy, dank underside of Hammersmith Bridge. There was something darkly Dickensian about it, and it had fetched £1,500 along with a nice seller’s commission for Matt.

  He checked the time – probably a good moment to catch Hetty on her lunch break. Matt and Hetty had been best friends since uni and she was his first port of call when he needed to talk. And today he wanted to talk about Kate. Something was bugging him about her – she was probably just working too hard, but that gym routine in the middle of the night was just one of many symptoms – symptoms of a deep-down sorrow that reared its head from time to time. A chat with Hetty would sort him out. And probably some TLC time with Kate – she always responded well to being spoilt, loved up and boosted with confidence. He picked up his mobile, pressed ‘call Hetty’ and waited.

  Hetty had worked for a small magazine in Hampstead called Vegetarian Living for the past ten years, and Matt knew what a stickler her boss Glen was when it came to taking private phone calls during office hours.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Why do you always answer your mobile like you don’t know who it is?’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Yes! Why don’t you just say “Hi Matt”? ’Cos you know it’s me.’

  Hetty thought about this for a second. ‘Well, I suppose it feels like I’m sort of spoiling your surprise!’

  Matt laughed. Kate was right about Hetty – she was one of life’s sweetest and funniest people.

  ‘Hey, guess what?’ she said, full of excitement and not waiting for the answer. ‘I’ve done it! Announced the reunion thingy.’

  The bloody university reunion! Hetty had been planning it for at least the past two years. Matt felt relieved it was finally happening, because that meant it would soon be over and he would stop having to listen to her going on.

  ‘But what if no one comes?’ She was off at a hundred miles an hour, worrying, wondering, projecting, forgetting there was someone else on the other end of the phone. ‘You’ll come, won’t you? I mean, even if it’s just you and me, that’s still technically a reunion …’

  ‘Hetty, slow down! I need to pick your brains about Kate. I think she’s getting … y’know … unsettled again.’

  But Hetty wasn’t listening. She was distracted by Ivor the magazine’s accountant signalling to her that their boss was back. ‘Sweetheart, I have to go …’ she flapped. ‘Glen’s about to walk in!’

  ‘OK, well can you babysit tonight?’ Matt blurted. ‘I thought I’d take her out for dinner – we need a bit of grown-up time—’

  ‘Yes, yes!’

  Ivor was now waving at her manically.

  ‘Great. See you at seven.’

  ‘Yes OK, now go!’ She was panicking.

  ‘Oh, one last thing – shall I get you something special to eat? Pizza?’

  Hetty could see Glen’s silhouette moving along the corridor to the office door and just managed to frantically screech-whisper, ‘Brown-rice-and-broccoli-I’m-CLEANSING!’ before hurling her mobile into a wastepaper bin and plonking herself down so hard on her ergonomic office kneeling chair that she slipped and landed on the floor. A second before Glen walked in, she clambered back up and tried to look engrossed in her computer whilst surreptitiously rubbing her left knee.

  At the gallery, Matt smiled and pulled on his jacket. ‘I’m off then, Pete. You’re OK to close up?’

  ‘Of course. We’re running low on the Ketterlock postcards, by the way.’

  ‘OK, I’ll call them tomorrow.’ And he stepped out into the brisk October lunchtime.

  Porto’s restaurant was a five-minute walk away, en route to the school. He’d taken Kate there on their first date, and since then it had become their most regular haunt. They loved its unpretentiousness and authentic Portuguese décor and, more than that, its delicious fresh fish and seafood. Porto’s was owned by Ralph, who prided himself on creating a little Mediterranean bolthole in the middle of West London. Ralph’s brother did the cooking, using their mother’s recipes, and Ralph himself was a kind of maître d’ slash head waiter.

  He was outside now, talking to some customers. When he saw Matt he beamed. ‘Hey my friend, when are you bringing your beautiful wife to see me?’

  ‘Can you fit us in tonight, around half eight?’

  ‘Of course. Usual table?’

  Matt laughed. ‘Ralph, how come you can always fit us in? What if someone else wants that table?’

  ‘Then I throw them out my restaurant. Out on the street. On their backsides. See you tonight, Mattango.’

  Matt shook his head, smiling at Ralph’s sense of melodrama. He headed towards Tallulah’s school, bracing himself for a performance of ‘What the Octopus Did On His Holiday’.

  He called Kate. Straight to voicemail. ‘Hey gorgeous, just checking in. How’s it going up there? You finding it all a bit weird? Call me when you’re done. I’ve booked Porto’s and Hetty’s babysitting. I love you.’

  As he hung up, on cue a text came through from Hetty. ‘OH MY GOD! ALREADY THREE REPLIES TO THE REUNION! XX’ She always texted in capitals.

  Matt answered, ‘Awesome! X’

  A few seconds later, another text: ‘PS, ONE OF THEM IS FROM ADAM LATIMER!!’

  Matt’s smile dropped. That wasn’t so awesome. He stopped for a moment, then texted back, ‘GR8 – gotta go. School play. C U 2nite. X’

  Christ, Adam Latimer. Thinking of him left Matt cold. The guy was an idiot, only Hetty refused to accept it. Despite how much he’d hurt her, Matt’s lovely friend, over and over again. He could handle Hetty’s incessant talk of Adam, but the thought of actually seeing him after all that had happened was … well, anyway, she hadn’t said Adam was actually coming to the reunion, just that he’d replied.

  So we live in hope, thought Matt as he arrived at Tallulah’s school, a tiny Adam Latimer-shaped cloud threatening to darken his otherwise sunny day.

  6

  Kate sat on the child-sized toilet seat of a child-sized toilet in the girls’ lavs and willed herself not to cry. She shut her eyes and squeezed back the tears, forcing lungfuls of air in through her nose and out through her mouth like she was in some advanced meditation class for superheroes. In. And out. And in. And out.

  She had thought she was going to faint. God, she was a good actress. No one would’ve suspected the torment she was going through, stood there in front of Callum MacGregor’s Year Six pupils, with the Headmaster watching proudly from the sidelines, as she answered question after question, her wit, warmth and charm winning over the kids. She’d signed over thirty autographs, including one for Alice MacDonald’s gran. ‘Miss! Miss!’ Amidst a sea of raised hands, Callum – also appearing to be calmer than a duck pond – had taken on the unofficial role of MC and had selected the questioners from the class.

  ‘OK, Gregory Lang. And don’t even think about saying anything rude, pal.’

  Kate had smiled, but hadn’t dare look in Callum’s direction, keeping her focus firmly on little Gregory.

  ‘Miss, see when you was in Australia doing that film …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Why d’ye not go on Home and Away?’

  ‘Hm, well, I don’t think they’d have me, to be honest.’

  ‘She couldn’t do the accent, stupid!’

  ‘Yes she could, she’s an actress, stupid!’

  ‘Miss! Are you a millionaire?’

  ‘Er …’

  ‘Have you got a mansion and a car made of gold?’

  ‘Right, that’s enough questions, I think it’s time we said goodbye to our guest now, don’t you?’ Callum MacGregor’s ‘teacher’ voice was well practised and unfailingly effective. He’d alw
ays managed to garner respect even from his most wayward of pupils.

  ‘Thank-you-very-MUCH-Mrs-Andrews,’ the kids had chanted in the listless sing-song way that only schoolchildren know how to do.

  ‘It’s Miss Andrews, actually.’

  ‘You never married, then?’ Callum had asked.

  And this time she couldn’t help but look at him. Well, a vague approximation of him anyway. She couldn’t actually meet his eye, acknowledge his physical presence, say ‘hi’ to the elephant in the room, so huge it was straining against the walls and the ceiling, threatening to bring the whole place down around them in pieces.

  ‘Oh, y’know,’ she muttered, trying with all her might to sound casual. ‘Equity name an’ all that. My married name is Fenton.’

  There was a butterfly-flutter-sized hiatus that nobody else could’ve detected. The kids had already started talking about lunch and the Headmaster was chomping at the bit, ready for the next part of his tour. ‘OK then, Kate – are we ready to meet Mrs Baldwin?’

  ‘Mrs Baldwin! God, is she still teaching?’ Kate’s enthusiasm was a little too hearty.

  ‘Only just! She retires in June. She’s been really looking forward to your visit.’

  ‘Excellent!’ And as she followed Mr Boyd towards the door, Kate gathered all her strength, turned to Callum and gave the performance of her lifetime. Ultra cool, unflustered, in control. ‘Nice to see you again, Callum.’

  In return he simply touched his temple with his forefinger in a tiny mock salute.

  Outside in the corridor the Headmaster was off like a rocket, striding towards Mrs Baldwin’s room with Kate following behind in a daze.

  ‘She’s where she always was – same classroom since she started in 1960!’ And then he added, ‘I didn’t realize you and Callum already knew each other.’

  ‘Oh.’ Kate was caught off guard. ‘We don’t really – we had a mutual acquaintance …’ She tried concentrating on not being sick. ‘Actually, I think I drank too much coffee on the train. Can I just pop to the loo?’

  The Headmaster wasn’t impressed. He had an itinerary. He knew she’d start messing it up – she was an actress, after all. Very needy they could be. And disruptive. Or so his wife had warned him. He glanced at his watch and mustered a smile.

  ‘Well, we are up against it, schedule-wise. Probably best if you use the junior girls’ lavatory rather than popping back to the staff-room. I’ll wait up ahead with Mrs B – you can find your own way, can’t you?’

  Kate had stumbled into the girls’ toilets. Empty and silent apart from the hiss of the leaky water fountain, which somewhere in her subconscious she noted had still not been fixed since even when she was a pupil. She headed into a cubicle, locked the door and sat down. How she longed for a cigarette.

  Their affair had been earth-shatteringly erotic.

  Snatched moments in the pub’s beer cellar when they’d both offered to change a barrel, the lifts home afterwards, the joyous and dangerous risk-taking sex on the beach, in his car, in her bedroom when her parents were out – even his house on occasion.

  But it had always been more than just a fling. She’d known as soon as she’d looked at him that first night behind the bar how frighteningly powerful this thing between them actually was. She’d known. Something inside her had simultaneously died and sprung to life. Totally without control of where it could lead, totally without care for whom it would hurt, including herself. She’d been continuously both thrilled and filled with terror every second she was with him, every minute she was not.

  And there it was. Alive in her again. Electricity restored in the wake of a power cut. Lights back on. Business as usual. Exactly how it felt seventeen years ago.

  Before it all came crashing down around them …

  Don’t cry.

  Do. Not. Cry.

  She reached for her cigarettes. She knew the Headmaster would be tapping his foot by now, but he would just have to wait. She held the lighter up, her hand shaking, let the flame ignite the tobacco and inhaled. Three deep draws on her Marlboro Light before tossing it half finished into the bowl. She flushed, grabbed her Chanel from her bag and smothered the smoke in a blanket of scent.

  When she came out of the cubicle, she was startled to see a little girl stood staring, as if she’d been waiting for her.

  ‘Oh! You made me jump!’ Kate attempted a smile, but the little girl just frowned.

  ‘The Headmaster says Mrs Baldwin is waiting,’ she announced, and ran off. Kate wished she could run off too.

  ‘On my way!’ she shouted, faking brightness brilliantly.

  7

  The school bell rang announcing home time and his twenty-seven pupils scraped their chairs, grabbed their bags and were gone, Callum pointlessly shouting after them, ‘No running!’ He began clearing the desks and sighed.

  He’d known for several weeks that she was coming. Brian Boyd had smugly announced it on the staff noticeboard at the beginning of term: Centenary Celebration – VIP visit by former pupil and TV star Kate Andrews. Most of his colleagues were excited at the prospect, especially the female staff who ‘loved everything she was in, especially that thing about the nurses’ – Callum kept schtum, feigning disinterest whenever the subject came up.

  Seeing Kate’s name up there in black and white had left him inwardly reeling, taking in the enormity of what it would feel like to see her again. But at least he’d had a few weeks to get used to the idea, and being forewarned would make him forearmed. He’d be prepared for the challenging hour or so she’d be standing in his classroom; she’d be gone as quickly as she’d arrived, leaving him to carry on with his day. She wouldn’t have been expecting to see him though, would she? She’d have presumed he still taught in Portobello – not that he’d become deputy head of her old school in Queensferry. He could’ve taken a sickie, he supposed, and avoided the whole thing. But he’d not been teaching there that long, it wouldn’t look good taking a day off so soon in the job. Plus, if he was honest, once he’d grown accustomed to the idea of seeing Kate again, he’d been curious to know what she looked like these days. In the flesh.

  Seventeen years.

  It came rushing back to him like it had happened only weeks ago. The chaos that had ensued, the disintegration of his until then very solid life. The whole experience, laid to rest in recent years, now hauled glaringly back into the spotlight.

  He thought of the guilt he’d felt after that first night on the beach.

  The only way to handle it – more importantly, the only way to prevent any danger of giving himself away – had been to act with total confidence, as if it had never happened. So there he was, up by eight the following morning, seeing to the boys’ breakfast and making Belinda a cup of tea. He buttered three rounds of toast and cut them into soldiers. Then lifted two soft-boiled eggs from the pan, neatly placing them inside two ceramic Thomas the Tank Engine eggcups before handing them to his sons. ‘There you go.’

  ‘Yummeeeee!’ Ben started smashing the top of his egg straight away with a spoon.

  ‘Hey, careful, let Daddy do it.’

  Cory just stared at his egg, unsure what to do next, and waited to copy his older brother like he did with everything else in his little life. Soon they were both dipping their soldiers into the rich, amber yolks, and Callum returned to making the tea. Three bags in the pot, he waited for the kettle to boil.

  But forgetting the night before had been easier thought than done. Kate Bush was playing on the radio and he was back in the beach shelter, the waves applauding them, his eyes closed, Kate kneeling on the sandy ground, watching his face with delight as she loosened his belt, his jeans … she’d known exactly what she was doing, what she wanted … and when she got it she began devouring him with erotic expertise. Christ. And if I only could, I’d make a deal with God, And I’d get him to swap our places …

  The kettle had clicked to announce the boiling of the water.

  ‘I am gaspin’ for a cuppa.’

 
; It was Belinda. Callum’s earlier determination to banish his guilt had gone out the window the instant he saw his wife walk cumbersomely into the kitchen, heavy with sleep and a month away from childbirth. He dug deep and with desperate and forced casualness managed, ‘I was hoping you’d have a lie-in.’

  ‘Try telling this one that.’ Belinda smoothed her hand over her baby bump. ‘We been practising a few drop goals in my tummy this morning, haven’t we?’

  ‘Start ’em young, eh?’ Callum kissed the top of her head and put his arms around her. They both stood in silence for a moment, comfortable in the embrace, watching their boys demolish their eggshells. ‘Funny to think of there being three when it’s just been those two for so long.’

  ‘I know. Things change though, don’t they, Callumagico?’

  She looked up and smiled at him and he willed himself to stay calm, even though his heart was thumping and remorse was coursing through his veins at a rate of knots.

  Belinda’s antennae started to twitch. ‘You OK, babes?’

  Inwardly Callum started making a rapid deal with a God he didn’t believe in – Let this go, make this OK, and I will never go near that woman again.

  ‘Yeah, why?’ He tried and failed to sound nonchalant, and if the phone hadn’t rung at that precise moment, the game might have been well and truly up.

  ‘Daddy, it’s Uncle Fergus,’ said Ben, his mouth full of toast.

  Callum took the receiver, his hand slightly shaking. ‘Bit early for you, Ferg?’ As he spoke he watched Belinda pour herself some tea and kiss the boys. Distraction successful.

  ‘I know. Look, I hate to do this to you, but I’ve got two coachloads arriving today and Chris has just rung in sick. I’ve tried Polly and Liam, but it’s no go. Is there any chance …?’