by Ruth Jones
Darling Tallulah was different. Kate could be herself with her. This beautiful child had brought such gentle solace to her mother’s spiky and broken life, helping to heal it with a daughter’s unconditional love.
And yet Kate remembered guiltily how she’d reacted when she’d found out she was expecting – ‘I can’t possibly go ahead with it, Matt. We’ve only known each other a few weeks!’
Matt had felt differently, of course, and thank God he had. Thank God he’d fought to change her mind, because now when she thought of Tallulah not being there, never having touched their lives, it was too hard to bear. Matt had done most of the parenting – that’s just the way it had to be. Kate’s work wouldn’t allow her to be a stay-at-home mum, not if she was going to continue on this career trajectory that so far wasn’t letting up. But Matt was happy to play along, and Tallulah was happy to be a Daddy’s girl. So. Win-win.
And she could probably have carried on like that – with her averagely contented, fine and pleasant life. The black moods she could handle. And the eating disorder, the drinking, the frequent feeling of unmanageability. Sure, they weren’t enjoyable aspects of her life, but she knew how to cope with them.
Until three days ago, when she’d unexpectedly stumbled across Callum MacGregor, well and truly upsetting the applecart of her averagely contented, fine and pleasant life.
‘Any cakes, pastries, teas, coffees, alcoholic beverages …?’ The posh dull monotones of the first-class trolley hostess burst rudely into Kate’s daydream.
She smiled back politely. ‘No, thanks.’
Suddenly the woman dropped the accent and her bored features transformed as she recognized Kate, launching into a broad Glaswegian exclamation, ‘Oh ma Gawd! You’re the wee lassie from tha’ thing!’
Kate was too happy to be annoyed. ‘Yep, that’s me!’ Though she had no idea which ‘thing’ the woman was referring to.
‘Ah, y’see, ah thunk you’re fabulous. Can I git yur autograph just now?’ And she thrust a paper napkin and a black biro at Kate.
‘Sure. What’s your name?’
‘Ah, it’s not fur me, hen, it’s fur ma missus. She’s a Kate as well. And she fancies you like mad. Says what she wouldn’t do tae ye she got ye on yur own for five minutes down a dark alley!’
‘I’m flattered.’ Kate’s sarcasm was lost on the trolley hostess, who beamed as she watched Kate scrawl her name, before rushing off down the carriage with her trophy.
There were still four more hours to go. When she arrived, she planned to take a taxi to the hotel in Leith, check in, soak in a long leisurely bath – she’d packed some expensive bath oil – then at half six she’d put on the lingerie she’d brought with her, a beautiful lilac silk basque with satin-trimmed demi-cups, matching suspenders and seamed, flesh-coloured stockings. She’d wear the matching lilac silk robe to answer the door to him and her six-inch Louis Vuitton stilettos. Just thinking about it turned her on.
But suddenly, like a slap in the face, she was overcome with doubt. Was she being completely mad? Was this all a really stupid idea?
This journey to Edinburgh was a massive gamble in so many ways – she knew that, of course. She was playing with fire, not just because her lie might be discovered by Matt, but, more importantly, because Callum just may not turn up. What if she’d completely misjudged the situation? Only time would tell. By eight o’clock that evening, she would either be in bed with the man she had never stopped loving, or weeping into a large whisky and contemplating how her life could possibly progress, having rediscovered Callum MacGregor only to lose him a second time. This was a strong possibility. ‘Keep it simple, one thing at a time.’ That’s what her AA friend used to say. Yes. No point worrying about it till it’s happened, she thought.
She decided to call Matt. Her logic was that if she called him now he would think twice about calling her later, when she’d hopefully be with Callum.
When he answered, he sounded breathless. ‘We’re in the park. Hetty’s pushing Lules on the swings. Tallulah – shout hello to Mummy!’
In the distance Kate heard the thrilled, shrill voice of her excited five-year-old. ‘Mummy, I’m going SOOO high!’
‘Aw, she’ll sleep well tonight!’ Kate said.
‘That’s the idea. How’s the journey?’
And because she wasn’t lying, she didn’t feel guilty when she said, ‘It’s OK. I’ve only done one autograph so far! Hey, good night last night, wasn’t it?’
And that was true too. The three of them – Kate, Matt and Hetty – had written their names in the Cristal she’d brought home and Matt had quite literally danced on the table. Ironically, Kate hadn’t laughed like that with Matt for a long time. Sometimes she envied his close friendship with Hetty, but she suspected now that she might be glad of it in the near future. Because there was a chance Matt might need comforting …
36
‘Where’s Ailsa?’
‘Tom’s house. I said we’d pick her up later.’
Callum and Belinda were on the sofa, having just finished supper, waiting for the Lottery results. They played the same six numbers every week, and this week’s ticket was unfolded and ready in Belinda’s hopeful hand.
‘You know why she’s doing this, don’t you? Asking us for lifts all the time?’
Callum smiled. ‘Because she’s psychologically manipulating us, dear. Thinks she can wear us down with requests to be taken here, there and everywhere, until eventually we’ll give in and buy her a moped.’
‘Better than a car, I suppose.’
‘Ah, see – she’s getting to you already. What’s wrong with her having driving lessons, like we did in our day, and then borrowing her parents’ car – like we did in our day?’
‘Because it isn’t our day any more. It’s their day.’ Belinda tucked a stray lock of greying hair back behind his ear. ‘You feeling old, Callumagico?’
‘No,’ he lied. And instantly thought about Kate again. Try as he might, he couldn’t get her out of his head. Since she’d rung the school on Thursday, he’d hardly been able to think of anything else. Was she really coming up here? He had no way of contacting her, no way of finding out. Other than to go to the hotel itself, and there was no way that could happen. But what if she followed through her threat and turned up on their doorstep? And told Belinda about the other night? He could never lie his way out of that one. What a fucking mess.
He sighed and shut his eyes.
‘I know. Two numbers. Rubbish, really.’ Belinda screwed up the Lottery ticket and threw it in the wastepaper bin as the TV presenter brought the national draw to a close. ‘Still, two more than last week.’ She crawled off the sofa and over to the TV. ‘So who knows – next time it could be you! Now then – Robert De Niro or Jack Nicholson?’ She held up two video cases from the local Blockbuster containing The Score and About Schmidt.
‘What? Oh, I don’t mind.’
‘You’re thinking about Beavis, aren’ you? Look, you can still go, y’know. I’m not that bothered.’
‘It’s his third stag night, Bel. The guy’s a serial bridegroom. I’ll go on his next one, OK?’
She smiled. ‘OK, well I’ll make an executive decision then. We’ll go for the Robert De Niro. Gets me in the mood, does Bob, so you never know – might be your lucky night tonight, MacGregor!’
‘Ha! I’ll make us a cuppa.’ And he headed into the kitchen. The kettle was retro style with whistle, bought for them by the kids for their twenty-sixth wedding anniversary. ‘Because you make so much bloody tea!’ Ben had told them when they opened it. ‘Yeah, and it’s retro, like you two!’ Cory had chipped in. Callum filled it up and put it on the gas, wondering how he was able to so brilliantly conceal the chaos going on in his head and remain so outwardly calm. He wished there was someone he could tell. Someone who’d advise him what to do.
‘You want to see the trailers?’ Belinda shouted through from the living room.
‘Not bothered. You go ahead.’
/> As the water heated in the kettle, the sound of its simmering filled the kitchen, piling on the pressure, increasing the tension, getting ever closer to boiling point.
What he did next came from nowhere. He was doing it before he consciously knew he was. He didn’t know if he was mad, sane, stupid, clever, foolish, wise, or just scared, but his mobile phone was now in his hands and he was dialling their own home number. Two seconds passed. Three, four. His breathing was shallow and loud, drowned out by the water in the kettle, gathering momentum, getting hotter and hotter. And then it rang: the phone in the hallway. Two rings. On the third, he shouted, ‘I’ll get it!’
Belinda, still on the sofa in the living room, called back: ‘It might be Ailsa. Bit early for her, mind.’ And she carried on previewing the trailers that came before The Score.
Dimly over the video’s soundtrack, Belinda could hear Callum taking the call. ‘Alright mate, how’s it going? … Speak up, I can’t hear you! … No, I can’t, pal … ’cos I’m havin’ a night in with my beloved …’ At this point, Belinda looked up, curious, grinning. ‘No, mate, I can’t! … Alright, hang on …’
He prayed Belinda wouldn’t notice his shaking hands as he covered the receiver of the phone that had no one on the other end of it and lowered his voice, saying, ‘It’s Gary. Says they’re all missing me, the bunch of girls’ blouses! Said I have to ask you to let me go down there.’
Belinda laughed. ‘Go on then.’
‘Are you sure? ’Cos I’m not really bothered myself.’ Part of him wanted Belinda to say no, to put her foot down and stop him pulling the self-destruct cord.
She whispered, so that ‘Gary’ wouldn’t hear, ‘It’s up to you, babes. You could just go for one? That’d shut them up.’
Callum turned back to the phone. ‘Right, I’m coming for one and that’s it, OK? … Aye, OK.’ And he hung up.
‘Don’t be surprised, though, if I’m not here when you get back.’
Callum was caught off guard. ‘What?’
‘I might have left you for Robert De Niro, that’s all I’m saying.’ And she turned back to the film. In the kitchen, the kettle whistled harsh and loud and shrill.
Half an hour later, he stood outside the door of the Lomond Suite at the Barrington Hotel in Leith. She didn’t answer straight away, so he knocked again. He’d managed to get past the concierge without being noticed and had scoured three floors in search of the Lomond Suite, praying no CCTV would track him down, his pulse racing with every step. What the fuck was he doing here?
Still no reply after the second knock, so he decided she wasn’t there, relief flooding his body with such force he thought he might pass out. She hadn’t come. Thank God. He turned to leave, deciding to go straight from there to the club so he could at least cover himself and verify the lie he’d already told about Beavis’s stag night. He’d taken three steps away from the door when it opened. He turned. And there she was.
Neither of them spoke. She looked exquisite. The soft glow from the lamp in the room beyond created the perfect back-lighting to the scene and he drank in the whole effect of her, mesmerized by the image: the silk, the face he knew so well, the lips he needed to kiss again, her gorgeous toned thighs accentuated now by the tops of her stockings, and her creamy, flawless skin that he desperately yearned to touch. He was felled. Once more she’d caught him, enraptured him, and made him hers. She held out her hand and he took it. Putting up no fight, he let her draw him inside.
37
‘Should we make it a black-tie event?’
‘Well if you do, I ain’t coming.’
‘Oh Matt, you’re such a spoilsport!’
They’d been discussing the forthcoming reunion as Hetty painted her nails in readiness for lunch with Adam. The Big Day was nearly upon her and she didn’t want to be alone, she was too, too excited! She’d spent the afternoon with Matt and Tallulah and it had seemed pointless going home. So she’d had a bath there, plucked her reprobate eyebrows and ‘jimmy-jammed down’, borrowing an old T-shirt and joggers of Matt’s – ‘Because, let’s face it, Kate’s won’t go anywhere near me.’
Matt was flicking through the channels with the TV on mute and tucking into a peppermint tea, having sworn off wine for at least a month after all that champagne the night before. He’d tried Kate’s mobile a couple of times, mildly frustrated when it went straight to voicemail. ‘And anyway, if you make it black tie, people will expect a three-course meal. And you’re only offering them a bowl of cashews.’
‘Three choices of canapé to be exact, but yes, you’ve got a point.’
They sat in silence for a bit. They liked that about each other. Saying nothing for long chunks of time never felt awkward to either of them.
‘Why d’you think he’s asked me to lunch?’
‘Ah, just when I was having a lovely evening …’ Matt knew Hetty was desperate to talk about Adam. She threw her pen top at him. ‘Oh I dunno, because he’s probably matured and developed manners over the past fourteen years and thinks he should apologize to you in private rather than wait till the reunion. Personally, I don’t think you should go …’
‘To the reunion?’ Hetty was horrified.
‘No, you dork, to lunch tomorrow! But then what do I know?’
Matt carried on flicking through the channels. And Hetty thought about the last time she’d seen Adam. She often thought about it, in fact, but more than ever in this past week, since he’d got back in touch.
It was their final term at Warwick. During the previous two and a half years, she’d held on feebly to the notion that she was Adam’s girlfriend. Even though she’d never met his parents or even been to his home, and rarely saw him during the holidays. Hetty didn’t see this as a bar to their relationship and carried on as if they’d been going steady for years. The feeling clearly wasn’t mutual, despite the fact that Adam would occasionally deign to grace Hetty’s bed or go with her to see a film or let her buy him a curry. These were the occasions to which Hetty clung as evidence that they were an actual couple.
Adam tried time and time again to push her away, but all to no avail. He would let her down relentlessly, agree to meet then not show up, humiliate her in front of other people, blatantly kissing other girls knowing Hetty was nearby. One time, he met her for a drink in the Union’s Mandela Bar, got up to go and make a phone call, and left his drink on the table. Forty minutes later, he still hadn’t returned, so she went looking for him. He wasn’t at the nearby phone box, or anywhere else in the Students’ Union. She went back to the table and sat there alone till last orders. When the Mandela Bar closed and he still hadn’t returned, she made her way back to her room.
The next morning, she saw him being dropped off by a first-year student in a yellow 2CV. He was wearing the same clothes as the night before, and was dishevelled, unshaven and laughing. He kissed the girl for an inordinately long time before heading back to his room. En route, he happened to look up at Hetty, sitting forlornly at her window watching him, and shouted, ‘What? You’re not my fucking girlfriend!’ He had so little respect for her that he didn’t even feel she warranted being told a lie, let alone an honest explanation. And yet Hetty continued to love him. Her nickname amongst Adam’s friends was the Boomerang. No matter how often he threw her away, she kept on coming back.
For a short while, it looked as if there might be a way out of this toxic and dead-end relationship. At the beginning of the second term, Matt had started seeing Lucy, a Chemistry PhD student from Sheffield who was looking for a no-strings relationship, a ‘distraction’ and nothing more. Which was perfectly fine by Matt. Lucy had a friend called Tim, who she’d met through the rowing club and who both she and Matt thought would make the perfect boyfriend for Hetty. So they set up a double date. To their delight, Hetty got on famously with Tim and agreed to see him again.
But on their fifth date – ten-pin bowling in Leamington – Adam had turned up and nipped the budding romance on the ankles. He told Hetty he needed to
talk to her. At first, buoyed up by the enjoyment of her new relationship with Tim, Hetty stood her ground and told Adam he was none of her business any more. Nor was she any of his. But Adam was having none of it. And put on one of his best performances to date, becoming tearful, telling her that he was sorry, he needed her, and he hadn’t realized how much she meant to him, that you ‘don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone’. And unluckily for Tim, Adam’s sorry tale did the trick: Hetty made her apologies and followed Adam out of the bowling alley, never to date Tim again. When they got back to Adam’s room he asked Hetty to stay the night and had sex with her. But in the morning he as good as ignored her, telling her his turning up at the bowling alley had been for a dare: to see if he could get her to come back to him even whilst on a date with another guy. And he’d succeeded. And won the bet. ‘So thanks for that, but I’ve got a seminar to get to.’
Hetty was so embarrassed she’d been the subject of a bet that she couldn’t bring herself to tell Matt the truth about what had happened. Matt, in turn, had become so frustrated by Hetty’s return to Adam that he lost it one night in the communal kitchen and said he had no respect for her as a friend any more. That she could let that moron have such a hold over her and control her life to such a degree – he despaired. And would prefer it if they stayed out of each other’s way from now on.
Hetty was heartbroken. She was living a complete lie with a boyfriend who wasn’t a boyfriend and who saw her as having nothing more than entertainment value. She had lost the potential of having a proper boyfriend in Tim, and, worst of all, she had lost the respect and friendship of her dearest Matty. For the rest of that term she spent every day at the library revising, before going back to her room and crying herself to sleep. Even on exam days, Matt didn’t speak to her. Not really. He’d politely ask how she’d found the paper, before excusing himself and disappearing.