by Ruth Jones
Belinda found her social bearings along with her manners. ‘Oh, there’s lovely! Look, why don’t you come in? I was just about to make coffee.’
‘Sounds fantastic.’ Kate didn’t need asking twice and was soon following Belinda into the kitchen.
Don’t. Ask. About. Callum.
‘I can only offer you black, I’m afraid,’ Belinda said, adroitly filling the kettle with one hand.
‘Just how I like it.’
‘We’re out of milk till Callum gets back with the shopping. He’ll be sorry to have missed you.’
Kate shivered at the sound of his name. ‘How’s he handling fatherhood this time round? I hope he’s helping with the night-time feeds!’
The boldness of the question threw Belinda slightly. ‘Er … yes. He’s doing his bit, y’know.’
A small hiatus, interrupted by Belinda: ‘Those flowers are stunning, by the way!’
Kate held them out. ‘Look at me hanging onto them like a fool. Do you want me to put them in water for you?’
‘Tell you what, let’s do a swap and I’ll get a vase from upstairs.’
Kate was wrong-footed by this, and surprise registered on her face.
‘Don’t worry, she won’t bite!’ Belinda laughed as she exchanged bouquet for baby, handing Ailsa over with the ease and self-assurance afforded to a mother of three. As she did so, Kate noticed her grandmother’s eternity ring adorning the third finger on Belinda’s left hand.
Kate, for once, was lost for words, unable to get her head round the fact that here she was, sitting in Callum’s kitchen, holding Callum’s baby, whilst Callum’s wife fetched a vase and left her like that alone. A lovely calm enveloped her. She could hear birds in the garden, and the distant bark of a dog. Time paused. Life was momentarily perfect.
She looked down at the velvety head and soft, plump skin of Ailsa’s milky little face, her eyes bright and inquisitive, not quite focusing but staring in Kate’s direction, full of trust and contentment.
‘Don’t you look like your daddy?’ she whispered, and Ailsa gurgled back at her.
She’d never really paid much attention to babies to date. Found them a bit annoying and needy. But this baby, this little bundle of mini-Callum, was the most beautiful baby she’d ever seen.
The timing couldn’t have been more uncanny. Or more unfortunate – depending on the perspective – because just then the back door opened and Callum stumbled in, laden with bulging carrier bags full of groceries and disposable nappies. He was watching his step and looking down.
‘Sorry I took so long. Bumped into Arthur Noctor.’
‘Hello,’ Kate said timidly.
He couldn’t process it at first. The sight before him.
Kate.
Holding his three-week-old daughter.
He stood as still as a stag in a glen, searching for words or reason, his breathing rapid and short. ‘What the fuck?’
Then Belinda called from the hallway, ‘Callum? Is that you?’ He may as well have been tasered. But before he could answer she was with them in the kitchen, a vase in one hand, flowers in the other, unwittingly saving him from himself. ‘Kate’s brought us these – from all the gang at the Lamb and Flag. Aren’t they gorgeous?’
From somewhere he managed to find his voice. ‘Yeah. Nice.’
‘He’s a man of few words, is Callum.’ Belinda smiled at Kate, in the way wives do to excuse their husbands’ awkward social behaviour.
Kate smiled back, finding her ground now and safe in the knowledge that they were getting away with it, secretly enjoying the thrill.
‘I’m makin’ us a cuppa – you fancy one, love?’ said Belinda. And she turned on the tap, waiting for the water to run cold before filling the blue ceramic vase.
‘No, I’m goin’ out again. They’d run out of wet wipes and nappy bags in Tesco.’
‘This is the sort of glamorous life we lead, Kate – bet you’re jealous!’ Belinda laughed, unaware of the truth in her joke.
Whilst Belinda was turned away from them at the sink, Kate ventured a glance at Callum.
He didn’t return it. ‘Thanks for the flowers – send my best to everyone,’ he said, lifting the shopping bags onto the kitchen table. ‘Lind, I’ll pop down to Dawsons and put this lot away when I come back.’ And he made to leave.
Panicking, Kate exclaimed, ‘God, is that the time? Jake’s expecting me – my boyfriend,’ she explained to Belinda, simultaneously conveying to Callum that she had her story straight. ‘Actually, Jake’s not far from Dawsons – you couldn’t drop me off, could you, Callum?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘We’re meant to be seeing a film at half past.’
There was no way out. Especially as Belinda simply assumed he’d do the favour. ‘Come on then, Madam, let’s have you back,’ she said, as she lifted Ailsa out of Kate’s arms.
‘Yeah, OK. Car’s out the back.’
‘Nice to meet you, Kate, albeit briefly! And thanks again.’
‘My pleasure.’
Kate buckled up the seatbelt in Callum’s car, her hand shaking. They sat in silence, as he concentrated on reversing out of the garage and she concentrated on stopping herself from reaching out to touch him. As soon as they’d turned onto the road, Callum spoke.
‘You’re sick, d’you know that?’
‘Probably.’ Kate was barely audible.
‘Coming to my house! Drinking coffee with my fucking wife! Jesus!’ Callum was consumed with contempt.
‘I’m not asking you to leave her, Callum.’
He was so taken aback by this he laughed.
They sat in silence again as he drove past Dawsons and up to the end of the high street, turning into a small car park at the edge of some common land where people walked their dogs. He pulled into a parking space and switched off the engine, shutting his eyes, exhausted.
Kate reached out and took his hand, terrified he’d reject her, but happily surprised when he simply let her hold it.
‘Ailsa’s beautiful.’
‘Please don’t talk about the baby.’
‘Sorry.’
A few yards away from them, a man in mud-soaked trainers returned to his van with a soggy black Labrador and opened the back door. The dog refused to jump in, despite entreaties with biscuits and bits of cheese, and instead sat staring at his owner, demanding a longer walk. The man was patient, but in the end resorted to hoisting the dog up into the back of the van. He petted him before shutting the door, and the dog’s sad face stared back at Callum and Kate as he was driven away.
Still Callum looked ahead of him. ‘This whole thing between you and me, it’s been … I dunno …’
‘A complete mind-fuck?’
‘Yes.’
He found the courage and turned to her. ‘I wish I’d never met you.’
Defiantly, she held his gaze. ‘I know.’
He should’ve looked away, told her to get out of the car, to never contact him again, to leave him and his family the fuck alone. But it was too late. Those hypnotic, desperate eyes were drawing him in.
She leant in to him, reaching her hand up to his face, his skin hot with nerves and desire. And then her lips were on his, shy at first, but when he inevitably responded she needed no more encouragement, kissing him ferociously, her tongue finding his and sealing their mutual passion.
A woman in well-worn wellies and a coat covered in dog hair walked past them with two eager spaniels. She let them off the lead and they bounded away in search of adventure. All three were oblivious to the desperation steaming up the windows of Callum MacGregor’s car.
‘My parents are away at a wedding tomorrow,’ Kate whispered.
‘No.’
‘Just for a night. Say it’s work, a conference … anything.’
‘Kate, you know I can’t.’
Her voice broke as she pleaded with him. ‘Please, Callum.’ And without looking at him again, she got out of the car, shut the door and disappeared.
And Callum knew th
at within twenty-four hours he’d be lying in bed with Kate and wondering how this whole sorry, glorious mess would end.
It wouldn’t be long before he found out.
28
The Smiths blared out of the terraced house in Earlsdon where the after-show party was in full swing. Student houses were easily identifiable by the collection of bulging black bin bags outside the front door, cracked window panes, half-hung curtains and the distinct whiff of hash wafting onto the pavement, mixed with patchouli oil and economy burgers.
When Matt arrived, a couple of Goths were sitting on the small broken wall that bordered the weed-strewn garden – though it hardly did justice to the word ‘garden’. A shopping trolley with three wheels still lay where it had been abandoned in Freshers’ Week. What was this obsession students had with shopping trolleys, Matt wondered as he made his way through the already open door.
Inside, the airless house was throbbing with party sweat and sex potential. Dom, who’d played Cesario, was stood at the bottom of the stairs kissing a third-year English student with a shaved head.
‘Alright, Dom?’ Matt shouted over the music. ‘You seen Hetty?’
Without breaking out of the snog, Dom pointed vaguely in the direction of the kitchen and Matt headed through, picking up an abandoned can of Woodpecker in the hall. He took a swig and immediately spat it out, realizing too late that it had been used as an ashtray.
‘MATTHEW!!’ Hetty screeched when she saw him. He knew straight away she was pissed – it was the only time she didn’t call him Matt.
‘Got any mints?’ he asked. ‘Just had a mouthful of ash.’
But she ignored him, thrust a bottle of cheap wine into his hand and pulled him into the front room. ‘Let’s dance.’
‘Whoah, no thanks, I’m sober.’
‘Oh don’t be such a bore.’ Hetty wasn’t taking no for an answer and threw herself into her own particular style of dancing. Matt tried to blot out his embarrassment by downing the wine as fast as possible, soon realizing that nobody was watching him anyway – they were all engrossed in their own party head space.
‘So what did you think?’ Hetty shouted.
‘You were amazing!’ he laughed. ‘Really … interesting.’
‘Oh, thanks Matty. I LO-O-O-VED doing it.’ She’d been really quite terrible in the play, not that he’d ever tell her. ‘And what about Adam? Wasn’t he captivating?’ she yelled, dewy-eyed.
‘Yep. Captivating.’ And he finished off the wine, welcoming the hit he needed to get through this party he hadn’t wanted to come to, full of people he didn’t know.
He started doing a few dance moves of his own, going with the flow and singing along to Dexys Midnight Runners. ‘Come on Eileen, oh I swear, at this moment you mean everything!’
Half an hour later, he was sitting on an upturned bin in the tiny backyard, catching his breath and cooling down. A few feet away, Hetty was sharing a spliff with a couple of trendy girls, Mel and Zukie, from the cast.
‘I know you won’t believe it,’ Hetty slurred, ‘but I’ve never ever never even tried any drugs. The hardest thing I’ve ever taken is Benylin.’
Zukie, already pretty mashed, found this hysterical, whilst Mel just stared, concentrating hard.
‘Though to be fair to me, it wasn’t the one that makes you drowsy, so …’
Zukie laughed all the harder and Matt joined in. ‘You’re priceless, Het!’ He watched his friend drag on the joint like a teenager trying a cigarette for the first time.
The smoke tripped itself up in her throat and she spluttered, ‘That is sooooo good.’
‘Liar!’ Matt laughed and held his hand out for a toke.
The effect on Hetty was instantaneous. ‘You know what’s funny about your name, Matt, is that it’s “Mat”. Like a bathroom mat. Or a place mat.’
‘I’m gonna wet myself!’ Zukie squealed, and it really looked like she meant it.
Matt was no stranger to smoking dope. He loved it occasionally, loved its instant chilling-out and perspective-changing properties. He inhaled the coarse burnt weed mixed with cheap loose tobacco, held his breath and waited for the hit. As he breathed out, he closed his eyes and enjoyed that feeling of transcendence, the assurance that everything was just as it should be and more.
But his little zone of calm was soon disrupted by the sound of shouting coming from inside the house. ‘No, come on, SAY IT!’ Adam was in the middle of a row with Dom over what appeared to be ‘artistic differences’. A few party-goers had squeezed into the tiny kitchen to watch and a couple of earnest-looking girls were trying to calm things down. ‘Say it to my fucking face, don’t hide behind Liesl.’
‘OK, you’re a fraud, alright? A fucked-up little fake who thinks he’s God’s gift to theatre, lording it round the place like you’re Kenneth fuckin’ Branagh. Well you’re not, OK?’
A few muffled gasps filled the room, a mixture of relish and shock that someone was daring to stand up to the great Adam Latimer.
‘You’re a poxy drama student with an ego the size of Manchester. My grandmother can act better than you. And she’s been dead five years.’
People were sniggering now, because the whole thing was ludicrous. And for a moment, Adam seemed to think so too, looking round at his audience and allowing himself a small chuckle. He began turning away, and the fight seemed to be over more quickly than it’d started, until SMASH! Adam’s punch came from nowhere, catching Dom firmly on the left side of his jaw and sending him crashing into the sink. The over-stacked draining board shuddered under his weight, sending mismatched crockery crashing to the floor. The girls screamed and the boys squared up like bouncers in a nightclub, placing themselves between Dom and Adam in case more was to follow. It wasn’t.
‘You’re a prick.’ Adam delivered his parting shot with utter contempt, before pushing past a huddle of onlookers in the kitchen doorway and making his dramatic exit.
Matt, now stoned, found the whole thing hysterical. But Hetty was beside herself, calling after Adam, desperate to follow him, struggling to get through the sea of people blocking her way.
Siobhan, the English student with the shaved head, was checking Dom was OK. As Hetty pushed past her, Siobhan turned on her. ‘Call yourself a pacifist, and you’re letting that little Hitler sleep in your bed every night? You should be ashamed.’
Hetty ignored her, partly because she didn’t understand what she meant and partly because she was determined to get out of that house and find Adam. Matt, who was close behind, still clutching the spliff, was suddenly mesmerized by Siobhan’s shaved head. So much so, he had to stop and stare at it.
Siobhan was thrown. ‘What?’
Matt reached up and touched the warm, stubbled skin of her scalp.
‘Get off, you weirdo!’ Siobhan pushed his hand away.
Matt drew on the spliff and said, ‘You feel like a baked potato.’ It sounded insulting, but it wasn’t meant to be.
‘Come on! We’ll lose him!’ Hetty was pulling Matt’s arm, unwittingly rescuing him from Siobhan, who called him a tosser as he left the party, throwing an empty beer can in his wake.
They found Adam at the bus stop, waiting for the Number 12. He barely spoke all the way back to campus. Hetty, on the other hand, was starving and all she could talk about was food. When they arrived at Benfield Hall, she headed straight for the kitchen, the munchies chasing manners out the window as she scoured cupboards and tins for something to sate her hunger, without a care for whose supply she was plundering, and making off with two boxes of French Fancies secretly stashed away by Sarah the Goth.
Matt, meanwhile, had let himself into his room without switching on the light and lain on the bed. His head was spinning – not unpleasantly – and the moonlight crept through his window, casting vast and Gothic shadows on the walls.
He must have fallen asleep for a couple of hours, although it felt like a few minutes, because when he woke up, the moon was no longer spying on him and the room was dark.
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It took a good five seconds for him to register that Adam was sitting on the end of his bed. Still a bit stoned, he didn’t feel shocked to see him. ‘Where’s Het?’ he mumbled.
Adam stared at the floor. ‘I think she ate eleven French Fancies. She puked them all over the bed.’
‘Oh fuck.’ Matt laughed and Adam looked up.
‘Can I sleep here? Her room stinks.’
‘Er, no.’ Matt was clear-headed enough to know that Adam Latimer wasn’t someone he’d ever want as a room-mate – even for one night.
‘Oh come on, Matt, I’ve had a crap evening, I just need some shut-eye.’
And for reasons he’d later search for and never discover, Matt found himself saying, ‘OK. But if you start snoring, you can piss off.’
Matt turned to face the wall and go back to sleep, feeling slightly guilty that he wasn’t checking on Hetty after her French Fancy binge and deciding she was probably alright.
He heard the swish of denim and cotton as Adam pulled off his jeans and T-shirt and dropped them to the floor. And he felt the unfamiliar warmth of a male body next to his as Adam climbed into the bed. His head still murky from the weed, he convinced himself that everything was fine, that Adam just needed somewhere to sleep and Matt’s bed was the only place on offer. They lay like that for several minutes, Matt pretending to sleep, Adam seemingly trying to.
And then, in the middle-of-the-night silence, Adam whispered, ‘You really don’t like me, do you, Matt?’
At first Matt ignored him – Best policy, he thought, don’t need to get into some heavy discussion – not at this hour. But there was something uncomfortably vulnerable about the way Adam had said it, something uncharacteristically gentle from this tough man in Hetty’s life. Matt should’ve followed his instincts and kept quiet, but his instincts were warped from too much spliff and, without moving, he said, ‘No. No, I don’t like you.’
The moments that followed were charged with uncertainty, unreadable and packed with risk. ‘But do you like me doing this?’ Adam said as he reached his hand around and inside Matt’s boxers. Adam’s delight matched Matt’s horror on discovering he was rock hard to his touch.