by Ruth Jones
‘I bumped into an old friend. We went for a drink.’ She took a deep breath. ‘So I missed the train.’ She shut her eyes tight as she lied to him, forcing her voice to stay level and calm.
There was another pause as Matt took in what he was hearing. ‘You’re still in Edinburgh,’ he sighed.
‘Yeah, look, it was just … we haven’t seen each other for so long! For … well, for years!’
‘What friend?’
She hesitated. ‘Sorry?’
Then she turned to look at Callum, realizing he’d been watching her the whole time, his expression different now, softer than it had been earlier, his defences down. She ventured to look him straight in the eye and this time he didn’t look away.
‘Paula. Paula McGee – you wouldn’t know her.’
Then Callum, without dropping his gaze, slowly reached out and put his right hand under the hemline of her skirt, touching the soft bare flesh of her inner thigh and confidently parting her legs. She gasped, shut her eyes again and tried steadying her voice, but when she spoke her words came rushing out. ‘Matt, this line’s a bit crap. I’m gonna get a flight, OK? I’ll ring you soon as I’ve got the details.’
Callum’s hand went slowly higher. The anticipation alone of his fingers inside her was too much to bear …
‘Dinner’s off then, I take it?’ The resignation in Matt’s voice was palpable.
‘Let’s go tomorrow instead, yeah? I’ll call you in a bit.’
She didn’t wait to hear his response.
Within fifteen minutes of ending the call, Kate and Callum had shut the door to room 210 of the Travelodge and were making up for the seventeen years they’d spent apart. Half a mile away, the planes continued to land and take off.
11
Becky was trying her best to balance a plastic tray that held a fizzing Berocca, a full-to-the-brim cafetière and a polystyrene bowl of sliced melon covered in tin foil, all whilst battling the gusting October winds. Head down, her wet-weather gear impeding fast movements, she headed to the make-up truck. As she reached the steps, Benno, the assistant director, was already there.
‘That lot for Kate?’ he asked.
‘Yeah. It’s all she wanted.’
‘OK, I’ll deal with it.’
He took the tray in one hand and deftly nipped up the steps of the truck, opening the door with his elbow. It was six fifteen a.m. and still dark.
Inside the make-up truck, Radio 2 was playing quietly in the background, and a combination of warm air and hairspray danced up Benno’s nostrils.
‘One ridiculously low-calorie, highly caffeinated breakfast for Miss Kate Andrews!’ he called out, all smiles.
Kate was sitting in the make-up chair down the far end of the truck, head back, an eye mask over her eyes. She didn’t move and looked for all the world like she had died. Betsy the make-up artist raised an eyebrow at Benno as she carried on painting Kate’s nails.
‘Just stick it anywhere,’ Kate mumbled.
‘Don’t tempt me.’ The film-set double entendres were prone to strike at any moment of the day, no matter how unsociable the hour.
Benno put the tray down next to Betsy’s make-up station. ‘Give us a minute, would you, Bets?’
‘Sure.’ And she replaced the nail-varnish brush and screwed on the lid, pointlessly attempting to blow Kate’s nails dry before she got up and left.
Benno grabbed a mug from above the sink and poured Kate’s coffee. On the mug it said, Yes, you do have to be mad to work here!
‘So … Doug tells me you called him last night and asked him to pick you up …’
‘Dobber.’ Kate could barely speak.
‘… from Sheffield!’
Kate sighed and slowly removed her eye mask.
‘You look like shit.’ Being direct was often part of Benno’s job.
‘Cheers, Brad Pitt.’ Kate reached out and grabbed her coffee, her hand shaking slightly. She downed a big mouthful and Benno took the foil off the melon slices.
‘What’s goin’ on, Kate?’
‘Late night, that’s all. With an old school friend.’
‘Yeah well great, you’ve got four major scenes today, including that pick-up from Wednesday, fourteen pages of dialogue, and you can barely keep your eyes open.’ He forked a piece of melon and stuck it in front of her mouth, feeding her like a toddler.
‘Few Red Bulls, I’ll be right as rain. You know me, Benno, show must go on and all that!’ She nibbled at the melon, then pushed it away, searching in her bag for some Panadol.
‘Don’t make me have to say it.’
She burst the pills out of their foil film and swallowed them with more coffee.
‘It won’t happen again.’ She was barely audible, like a sulking teenager, the chalkiness of the painkillers bitter in her mouth.
‘Good.’ He headed towards the door. ‘Oh and by the way,’ he smiled, ‘happy birthday, mate!’
When she and Callum had shut the door of the hotel room they didn’t speak for an hour, barely looked at each other, in fact. It was almost as though the sex was a necessity, a formality to be gone through before their lives could carry on. It had all been surprisingly easy, no awkward moments, no shyness – everything as it used to be, as it always was. And of course unspeakably, intensely good.
Afterwards they lay there in the gloaming, the fading Scottish light dancing through the characterless and tiny hotel window. Her head on his chest, him looking up at the Artexed ceiling. He spoke first.
‘So …’ he whispered, smiling. ‘You never write, you never call …!’
She laughed without looking up at him, just kept stroking his arm, the feel of his skin so surprisingly familiar, as if she’d touched it only yesterday, not seventeen years ago.
‘What were you going to tell me? Earlier. In the car,’ he asked.
‘Nothing. It wasn’t important.’
They’d stayed like that till eight o’clock, the by now black sky illuminated by unforgiving car-park lights, which cast an eerie orange glow over their bodies. Both their mobiles had rung several times and neither of them had answered. They knew that with each avoided call the demand for an explanation was building, and yet they couldn’t bring themselves to move.
Eventually it was Kate who did. There were no words, nothing either of them could say to soften the inevitability of separation. So she just stood up, dressed in silence and left. He stared at the door for minutes after she’d gone, reading the fire-drill sign above the handle over and over again: In case of fire …
When she arrived at the airport, the information board showed there were no more flights to London that evening. Bollocks. But there was one to Birmingham, leaving in an hour. Oh well, better than nothing, she thought. She headed to the desk to buy a ticket. It would cost her a fortune, no doubt, but needs must.
‘Sorry Madam, but the flight is completely full.’
Kate laughed. Was this a wind-up? ‘Don’t be ridiculous! Are you telling me you haven’t got one single seat?’
‘I’m afraid not. Due to the cancellation of the earlier Manchester flight.’
Kate put her head on the desk before her, the sound of metaphorical chickens coming home to roost, ringing in her ears. And people were staring at her. She forgot sometimes that her face was famous.
Panicking, she walked to the ATM a few yards away, taking out a stack of cash before heading over to the taxi rank. The driver’s expression was a picture when she told him to head south and just keep driving. Then she took a deep breath, looked at her mobile and rang Doug. She was dreading the melodrama, the indebtedness she’d be made to feel for weeks to come, but she had no option. He answered the call. She tried to sound light and ditzy.
‘Hey Doug, guess what silly mare has gone and missed her flight?’
A beat and then Doug launched automatically into crisis mode. ‘Where are you, sweetheart?’ His voice was low and gravelly; his London accent wouldn’t be out of place in an episode of EastEnders.
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‘Oh Doug, you don’t wanna know …’ She was dreading telling him.
‘If there’s a road that leads there, I’m on it.’
She could almost hear the look he was giving his wife as she stared over the rim of her cocoa mug and Kate knew he was actually enjoying the heroism of all this. So, probably, was Mrs Doug. ‘I’m in a cab, and I’m currently two miles south of Edinburgh airport.’
Doug gave a long whistle down the phone and Kate rolled her eyes. ‘OK. No problem! Give me ten minutes to fix myself a flask and I’ll be on that M1 before you know it. Tell the cabby to head for Sheffield.’
‘Sheffield! Good Lord!’ Mrs Doug in the background was probably now choking on her cocoa, Kate thought.
‘Yeah, there’s a service station just after Junction 30, I think it is. We time it right, you shouldn’t have to wait too long. Hang tight, angel. Your Uncle Doug is on his way!’
‘Thanks, Doug. Drive safe.’ And she hung up.
‘Y’know this is gonna cost ye hen, don’ ye?’ the taxi driver had said unhelpfully.
‘Yeah, don’t worry. I got the cash.’
‘Could be two, three hundred quid!’
‘Like I said, I’ve got the cash.’ And his face lit up. ‘Now if you don’t mind, I’m gonna get some kip.’ She shut her eyes and thought about her friend Lynette, a recovering alcoholic. Lynette had told her once about the first step of recovery – what was it? Something about being powerless over alcohol, and that ‘our lives had become unmanageable’. There wasn’t a glass of wine in sight, but Kate’s life had never felt more unmanageable.
And yet. And yet … there was also this warmth, this smile that stretched from her head to her toes, her whole being bathed in bliss. She felt like she’d found the missing piece, the piece she’d always known but never dared admit was missing. Until today.
The taxi turned onto the A1 and headed for Sheffield as Kate dozed off in the back seat, smiling in her sleep.
She crept into bed at three a.m. Matt was out for the count, his back turned away from her. He hadn’t been angry when she’d rung him about the flight, just resigned. And silent. She hated those silences. She knew them well. But she also knew she only hated them because they were justified. She was married to the kindest, sweetest, loveliest man on the planet, and yet she let him down again and again and again.
Surpassed yourself this time though! She’d curled up behind him, spooning him and inexplicably needing to feel the comfort of his body next to hers. As if she was telepathically willing him to forgive her for what she’d done. In his sleep, his hand reached up and held hers. It’s OK, baby, it’s OK.
Her eyes were closed for what seemed like only ten seconds before the timid alarm tone on her phone was urging her to wake up again. She’d had two and a half hours’ sleep and now it was time for work. When she left the bedroom she looked back at Matt. He was still sleeping, on his side in the same position as when she’d come home.
12
‘Take heed, Ailsa Cerys Louise! Before you stands the shadow of your father’s former self, victim of a mid-week drinking sesh and a man steeped in shame!’
Fifty-four-year-old Belinda MacGregor was clearing the breakfast things when her dishevelled husband came in, doing up his tie.
‘Aw Dad, you look minging!’ Ailsa was munching on a bowl of Shreddies and reading King Lear.
‘Yeah, alright.’
‘You didn’ even seem that pissed!’
‘Oi, language, missy.’ Belinda had always been strict about swearing. When it came to her kids, at least.
‘Aye, well I can handle my drink, can’t I? Because I am a grown-up, and you are still underage. Don’t forget it.’ Callum was glad of the subject change. It was a long, long time since he’d had to tell lies, and he was on very shaky ground now.
‘Who was he again? This old mate?’ Belinda pulled open the dishwasher door and started loading the plates.
Callum took a swig of tea, buying himself a nanosecond of thinking time. ‘Paul McGee. I told you! Emigrated to Oz thirty-odd years ago, back visiting his mother.’
‘I swear I’m losing my marbles. I can’t for the life of me remember him!’
He kissed her forehead. ‘Why should you remember every single person I was ever in college with?’ He threw away the rest of his tea and stuck his mug in the rack. ‘I’d give you a lift,’ he said to Ailsa, ‘but I’ve got to pick up the car from town.’
‘Oh it’s shamin’!’ Belinda winked at him, her greying hair swept back into a tight pony, a stone heavier now than in her thirties, but her eyes still bright and her smile still sexy.
‘Not going in till after break,’ Ailsa said through her munching. ‘Study period.’
‘Which is meant for studying!’
‘Er, what d’you think this is?’ And she held up her King Lear.
Callum rolled his eyes and made for the door.
‘See you tonight, you dirty stop-out!’ Belinda watched him go, calling after him, ‘And do your own tea, ’member. I’ve got Legs, Bums and Tums.’ She smiled, waiting for him to shout back at her, as he did every Friday morning, ‘And yours are the best in the world!’ But for some reason, today he didn’t say it. She frowned for a second, and put it down to his hangover.
‘I’ll take you, Ails. My shift’s not till ten.’ And she switched the dishwasher to rinse, extinguishing the flicker of doubt from her mind.
The night before, Callum had left the car outside a pub called the Griffin. It wasn’t a regular haunt of his and he reckoned he could get away without seeing anyone he knew. Three hours earlier, he’d left the room that Kate had paid for and made his way to the hotel bar. The two businessmen he’d seen that afternoon were sharing a couple of beers, and a woman in a corner was staring despairingly at her laptop. Apart from them, the bar was deserted. He was about to order a drink when he was overcome by the urge to get away from there – not home, not yet. Just away from that place. Where it’d happened. As if putting distance between himself and the hotel would erase the memory. Erase the event. He needed booze. Something to help make it all OK. Something to help him come up with a story, to help him think.
The Griffin was busy, thank God. Plenty of Thursday-night drinkers to hide amongst and keep him anonymous as he downed five pints and worked out a strategy. OK, so he’d met up with this old college friend, and one pint had led to another. Who was he? Oh, you wouldn’t know him. Do you want to invite him over? Will you be seeing him again?
No. Definitely not. It was a one-off.
The pub was closed up now, save for the drayman unloading his early-morning barrels. Callum got into his car, parked a little way off, and sat staring ahead of him. It was eight thirty a.m. He should’ve been in school by this time. He felt numb, not even daring to think about the night before. Every time Kate came prowling into his mind, he banished her from it. Desperate for some kind of sanity, he turned on the radio, yearning for the normal and the humdrum to bring him back to his normal and humdrum but lovely, loved life. Liberty X were singing, ‘Boy if you could read my mind, I’m sure that you could find, what you’ve been searching for.’
But he couldn’t stop Kate from prowling. And he couldn’t stop remembering: those lips, her legs wrapped tightly around him and how it felt to be inside her again.
He turned the dial quickly to a local station, where the presenter was discussing yesterday’s visit to North Park Primary by the famous actress Kate Andrews. ‘By all accounts, she was lovely!’
Callum turned the dial again and finally found solace in Radio 4. He took a deep breath and headed towards school.
13
‘It’s magnificent, don’t you think?’ Peter at the gallery was holding up a large canvas, received that morning and still half-wrapped in brown paper. Called ‘Sunrise at Coggleshell’, it had captured all the potency and optimism of a new day with confident sweeping colours that dared the observer to question them, and, despite his grey mood, Matt couldn’t help but b
e transported by it. The artist, Mark Lavender, had a quirk of style that neither Matt nor Peter could articulate. But his work always made them smile. They’d sold three of his paintings in the past, all for a good price.
‘He’s looking for two grand,’ Peter said.
‘Then put it on for three.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Not really. But then I’m not very sure of anything today.’
Peter frowned and was about to ask more, but Matt got in first, ‘Oh, just ignore me. I’ve got to go anyway. Picking Tallulah up so we can deliver Kate’s birthday cake.’
‘Send her my regards.’
It was the best Peter could manage. He always tried to hide his real feelings about Kate, but never managed to succeed, because he’d simply never been very keen on her. He always felt she gave Matthew the runaround. And he wasn’t just intimidated by her because she was a flighty actress – no, the TV world didn’t impress or faze Peter, having himself been in a relationship with a reasonably successful actor – Julius – for over ten years. There was just something untrustworthy about her.
In fact, Julius had worked with Kate a number of years ago on an episode of Midsomer Murders. She’d been playing the red herring, the young wife of a local dignitary who everyone suspected had a motive for killing her husband. Turned out it wasn’t her whodunnit but the lollipop lady. Julius had played the murdered dignitary, and so he and Kate had shared a few scenes. He said she was charming and witty and highly professional, but there was something not quite hinged about her. ‘Her cannon is most definitely loose!’ he’d confided in Peter one evening after filming. ‘A bit too fond of her friend Charlie.’ He tapped his nose conspiratorially. Peter had never tried cocaine, unlike Julius. ‘And there’s something else. Can’t quite put my finger on it, but believe you me, she’ll come to no good.’
So when Sylvia – Matt’s mother and Peter’s lifelong friend – had told him that her ‘darling Matthew’ was going out with a famous actress – ‘y’know, the one who was in the Scottish thing about the thing. On a Sunday night!’ – Peter’s alarm bells gave a faint tinkle. When Sylvia said they were getting married, the bells rang loud and long. But what could he say?