Missing You

by Douglas, Louise

  He gets into the car and starts the engine, and Belle has to step out of the way as he reverses out of the space, then he heads noisily out of the car park and back to Bath without another glance in her direction.

  Sean calms down as soon as he pulls out onto the motorway, and when Massive Attack come loud and moody out of the stereo he feels more like a man again. He turns to smile at Amy, who is sitting very straight with an anxious look in her eyes.

  ‘It’s OK, honey,’ he says. ‘Everything’s OK.’

  ‘You shouted again.’

  ‘I know and I’m sorry. When we get to Bath I’m going to call Mum to apologize.’

  Amy relaxes and sighs. ‘I don’t like Membury.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘It always makes you cross.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Sean. ‘Yes, it does.’

  twenty-two

  ‘Please, Fen, slow down. You’re giving me a headache,’ says Vincent.

  Fen has taken it upon herself to give the bookshop a proper clean, the first in a long while. She has already brushed the ceilings and shaken the cobwebs out into the yard, where the homeless spiders scuttled for shelter in the cracks of the cobbles and the wall. Now she is working methodically, shelf by shelf, taking down the books, dusting them, and cleaning the woodwork. So much dust has been displaced that they’ve had to prop the door open, and the sounds and the smells of the city in summer freshen the musty air.

  ‘What’s got into you?’ asks Vincent. ‘I preferred you how you were before. All quiet and introspective.’

  Fen thinks: You should be asking who’s got into me.

  ‘Oh Lord,’ says Vincent, reading her face or her mind. ‘You’re not in love, are you?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘Dear girl!’ Vincent leaves his desk and comes over to Fen, taking her hands in his and leaning forward to kiss her. ‘Thank goodness! And about time too!’

  A gaggle of students come into the shop, speaking a language Fen can’t place. She carries on with her work and Vincent withdraws and attends to them. When they have left he says: ‘It’s not that lodger of yours, is it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought as much. It’s obvious every time he comes in that he holds a torch for you.’

  ‘Don’t say anything to anyone, will you, Vincent?’

  ‘Of course not. It’s nobody else’s business. But he’s a good sort, is he? He treats you well?’

  ‘Yes, he does.’

  ‘Well,’ says Vincent, rubbing his hands together, ‘I think we should put the kettle on, don’t you? To celebrate?’

  ‘By “we” you mean me?’

  ‘You make coffee so much more nicely than I do, Fen.’

  Fen smiles. ‘You sweet-talking charmer, you!’

  She goes into the kitchen, and while the kettle boils she rummages through the cluttered, door-less cupboard until she finds what she is looking for. She makes Vincent’s coffee in the Man and Superman mug and hers in Great Expectations.

  twenty-three

  It’s a perfect Wednesday.

  Sean and Fen have both taken a day off work, and they are making the most of every precious minute of their time without children or responsibilities. Fen feels like a teenager again, like she did before everything went wrong; she feels fresh and new and sexy. They left the car parked on the verge of a lane and walked for miles along overgrown paths full of brambles and nettles and tiny moths and shafts of sunlight. And now here they are, just the two of them, and it is like a place in a fairy tale: a secret glade beside water that ripples in the sunlight’s glare, that’s smooth and oily and cold and clear, so clear that you can see the fish in the reeds, the pebbles at the bottom and the freshwater oysters. Millions of tiny insects, like dust motes, shimmy above the water and the leaves in the trees rustle as a little breeze skips through the branches. It is a perfect day. It’s one of those days, Fen knows, that she will never forget – a day that will come into her mind when she’s lonely or frightened or old, a day that will always bring a smile to her lips.

  ‘We should do this more often,’ says Sean. ‘Let’s go away. Let’s have a holiday. We can catch a plane and go somewhere warm.’

  ‘I don’t have a passport,’ says Fen.

  Sean squints up at her. The sunlight refracts from the tiny droplets of water caught in the hairs that cover her body, making her dazzle like an angel.

  Sean is lying on a towel in the long grass of the meadow beside the weir. Fen sits beside him, rubbing her arms with a towel. They have been swimming in the river, and now the blood is fizzing in her veins and her body feels hard and sinewy and strong.

  ‘How can you not have a passport?’ he asks. ‘Everyone has a passport.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  He pulls a face.

  ‘There are lots of things I don’t have,’ she says. ‘You know that.’

  ‘I know you don’t have a computer or a car or a screwdriver. But a passport?’

  ‘Stop looking at me like that,’ she says. ‘I’ve never needed one.’ She shakes her hair, spraying Sean with tiny droplets. ‘God, that water is cold!’

  Sean lazily reaches up his arm, takes her wet hair in his hand and pulls her face down to his. He reaches for her with his lips and they are warm, and his mouth tastes of beer.

  His finger hooks under the leg of her swimsuit and works its way around from the back.

  ‘Stop it,’ she says, but already she is sinking like the Titanic into what seems to her to be a bottomless ocean of desire. She shifts a little on the rug to make her body more available to him, and as she does so a breeze parts the leaves of the tree canopy above them and sunlight dazzles her eyes, burns her retina.

  He rolls her onto her back, kissing her so hard she can hardly breathe, and she pushes him away with her hands.

  ‘We can’t,’ she says, ‘not here. Anybody could come by.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ He is panting, his breath hot as flame on her cold neck. His hand is down inside his shorts. ‘We’re miles from bloody anywhere! I want to take you to Paris,’ he tells her, tugging at her costume. It’s wet and sticks clammily to her skin. She feels the goose pimples everywhere. She smiles up at him lazily, like a cat, she thinks, who is about to have the cream.

  ‘I want to take you to Venice and Rome and Madrid and Bordeaux. I want to sail you down the rivers, I want to swim you in the seas.’

  He takes her hand and guides it down and she holds him, strokes him with her fingers.

  ‘I want to fuck you all the way through Europe.’

  She reaches up for his lips and they kiss again, and as he covers her she can feel the ridge of her spine and the wings of her shoulder blades pressing into the hard ground beneath the rug, and she has to half close her eyes against the sunlight.

  ‘I’ll get you a passport and I’ll get you a suitcase and I’ll buy you a big bottle of sunscreen and nothing will stop us,’ he says.

  He tilts his head back so she can see the underside of his throat, where the tiny hairs darken the skin and there is a red flush, and he finds her and sighs deeply.

  ‘You’re so cold on the outside, and so hot on the inside,’ he whispers.

  She measures his back with her hands, the pressure of his muscles, his gentle strength as erotic as anything else. Over his shoulders, she sees two white butterflies dancing together, going round and round one another, spinning in the sunlight, and she thinks: It has always been like this – it was no different for the first people who evolved, it was no different for people ever – this is how every woman feels, this is how it feels to have a man you love inside you, and nothing else really matters.

  She tries to bring her mind back to the sex, but Sean is too far gone now, so she wraps her legs around his waist to help him and he comes in a moment and drops his lips to her shoulder, as he always does.

  ‘Oh God.’ He sighs. ‘Oh God, that was lovely.’

  Fen smiles to herself and strokes the hair around his
ear. She listens to the water splashing down the weir; it’s such a good sound.

  ‘You know,’ says Sean, ‘for a while, last summer, I didn’t think I could ever be happy again.’

  ‘Mmm …’ she says, too lazy to speak, too happy in her own moment.

  Sean props himself up on one elbow and she shifts a little for he’s heavy on her hips. He picks a piece of grass and sketches her nose, her eyebrows, her chin.

  He smiles.

  ‘But you know what?’ he asks.

  ‘No.’

  ‘This is as good as it ever gets. This is amazing. I want to feel like this forever.’

  ‘Good,’ she says, smiling, but from nowhere a sadness seeps into her belly and behind his back she crosses her fingers to ward off bad luck; just in case.

  twenty-four

  The weather is set fair so Lina suggests they all get together for a picnic in the park. She puts a notice up on the board in the reception area at work, and everyone Sean speaks to seems to be going; they have had impromptu parties in the park before and they’ve always had a great time.

  Sean has avoided mass social gatherings for some time now, but he knows Amy will enjoy the party so he accepts the invitation with good grace. He’s making the most of his daughter because, after the weekend, he won’t see her again for a while. After the success of the Greek retreat, the Other has been invited to co-host a similar event in the south of France. Belle told Sean she is going to help by providing refreshments to the students and tutors throughout the day and cooking meals for them in the evening. Sean was surprised by this. He was surprised that Belle agreed to take on the role of caterer. He asked if she wouldn’t rather be doing the writing herself; she said she would learn more about the human condition by observing than by participating. Sean can’t remember when she started talking like this. It sounds, to him, as if something isn’t quite right. He told Belle that the retreat didn’t sound like much fun for Amy, and Belle said it would be OK because it was a much bigger, more established event than the Greek one and there would be a children’s club with activities every morning and afternoon.

  Sean imagines Amy in her little ruched swimsuit and her cotton hat standing barefoot on scratchy, south of France grass, squinting up at the children’s club team leader – some nice, sensible French teenager – through her baby sunglasses. He imagines her running around with tanned French kids, learning some words. He imagines her in the swimming pool, in her armbands and her float-belt, splashing with her feet, the cold water sparkling in the sunlight. It’s a part of her life that she will never forget and that he will have missed completely.

  Lina comes into Sean’s office and asks if he’ll meet her in Sainsbury’s on the morning of the picnic, so that they can load up his car with food and drink. Freddie will bring the chairs, the rugs, the barbecue and the coals in their car, but they won’t have room for everything and she’d appreciate Sean’s help.

  ‘Of course,’ says Sean.

  ‘Bring Fen with you,’ says Lina.

  ‘OK.’

  Lina pauses at the door, tapping an envelope against her thigh. Sean looks up.

  ‘It’ll be OK, you know,’ she says. ‘I know it’ll be your first time on your own without Belle but everyone knows now and …’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ says Sean, ‘I’ll be fine. Thanks.’

  She closes the door, and he drops his head into his hands.

  He doesn’t know what he’s going to say to Fen. He hasn’t told anyone at work that they are together. The opportunity simply has never arisen. Sean has never been part of the drinking crowd, and since the break-up with Belle he has avoided invitations to social and sporting events, mainly because they all take place at weekends and that’s the only time he has with Amy. People don’t ask about Belle because they know his marriage is a sore point; they avoid conversations about women and Sean is not the sort of person to make announcements. He doesn’t quite know how to explain all this to Fen.

  On the way back to Lilyvale he stops off at the florist’s and buys a bunch of yellow roses.

  Fen is barefoot in the kitchen. The back door is open. Connor is sitting on the doorstep eating sandwiches. A pan of new potatoes is steaming on the hob.

  ‘Here,’ says Sean, passing the roses to Fen. ‘These are for you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she says, a blush of pleasure seeping onto her cheeks. ‘They’re lovely.’

  She runs two inches of water into the sink and stands the roses in that while she finishes preparing the meal.

  ‘What are you doing on Sunday?’ asks Sean, leaning against the counter.

  ‘Nothing,’ says Fen.

  ‘Wrong. You’re coming to a picnic in the park.’

  Connor looks up at Sean wide-eyed.

  ‘Is Amy going?’

  ‘Con, don’t talk with your mouth full,’ says Fen without even looking at him.

  ‘Yes, Amy’s going.’

  ‘Can I go with Amy?’

  ‘I’m sorry, mate,’ Sean says, ‘you and your mum will have to make your own way there. Amy and I are going to help Lina with the food.’

  ‘Doesn’t she know about us?’ asks Fen. She picks a boiled egg out of a plastic bowl and taps it against the edge of the counter.

  ‘I thought you might have said something.’

  ‘I haven’t seen her in ages,’ says Fen.

  ‘I keep meaning to tell her but we’ve been so busy lately, I haven’t been in the office much. I’ve been out on site,’ says Sean. It is the truth.

  Fen peels the brown shell from the egg. The smooth, exposed, congealed white glistens in the palm of her hand.

  ‘Don’t you want your colleagues to know about us?’

  ‘Oh, Fen, no. It’s nothing like that. It’s just … I haven’t had the chance to say anything. I don’t know how to tell them.’

  He puts his hand on her shoulder and kisses the top of her head. She concentrates on the egg. He leans over and steals a slice of cucumber from the salad bowl.

  ‘Did they all really like Belle?’

  ‘I don’t know. We don’t talk about women – we’re real men.’

  He feels her shoulder relax beneath his hand and she looks up and smiles.

  ‘You talk about sport and cars?’

  ‘Exactly. ’ He takes another slice of cucumber and a lettuce leaf.

  ‘Stop it,’ she says, waving him away. ‘There’ll be nothing left.’

  Sean kisses her temple.

  ‘Come on, you,’ he says to Connor, ‘finish that sandwich because we need to put in some practice at rounders.’

  The Sunday of the picnic is the sort of day that’s made for England. Little white clouds wisp across a perfectly blue sky, and between the pavements and the clouds long-winged birds soar, while a breeze that’s perfect for taking the edge off the heat breathes affectionately through the leaves of the trees on the hill.

  Amy is wearing shorts and a T-shirt, with her fairy wings over the top. The wings have been worn so many times that they are distorted and the gauze is distinctly grubby. She skips as she holds Sean’s hand on the way into the supermarket.

  Lina is already there, with a deep trolley, and the three of them fill it with beer, fizzy drinks, burgers, sausages, rolls and wine, and miscellaneous goodies that catch Amy’s eye: black olives (‘Mummy likes them’), buffalo mozzarella (‘Mummy likes that’), salted pistachios (‘they’re Mummy’s favourites’). Sean is trying not to place undue significance on the fact that Mummy has featured far more predominantly in their conversations since Amy woke from a nightmare one night and found Sean in bed with Fen.

  Once the car is loaded, they drive to the park, and, miraculously, find a space close to a nice spot towards the bottom end of the hill, below the Botanic Gardens and above the play area. Sean helps Lina and Freddie set up the barbecue while Amy lies on her stomach on the grass pulling the petals from daisies and telling herself a story. Soon other people arrive, a couple of families, a few couples, and the picnic
area expands, blankets next to blankets, grey smoke curls skywards and children’s laughter puts smiles on the faces of the adults.

  Freddie declares himself head chef – he has a comedy hat and an apron – and Sean, designated sous-chef, quietly follows his orders. He has been given the role of Freddie’s assistant out of kindness, so he will not have to sit on his own, doing nothing. He is grateful to Lina and Freddie for their thoughtfulness, but at the same time he feels intensely uncomfortable because now Fen will be sitting on her own. The longer he says nothing about her, the more difficult it becomes to broach the subject. He realizes that she has been on her own for so long that it is assumed, among the people who know her, that it is her natural state. It does not cross their minds that she might be with someone. He tries to think of a way to bring her name into the conversation casually, but Freddie is talking about global finance markets and other people are joining in with their opinions; there’s nothing Sean can do.

  He peels sausages out of their greaseproof paper and onto the tines of the barbecue, where they smoke and spit. He pokes them with his fork and turns wooden skewers heavy with chunks of vegetable. Freddie drinks beer from the can and waves away the smoke. Lina has taken off her shoes and kneels on the blanket, unpacking salads and quiches with the other women.

  ‘Freddie,’ says Sean, ‘there’s something I need to—’

  ‘Look,’ says Freddie, pointing with his tongs, ‘there’s your landlady.’

  Sean glances across the park, and in the distance he sees Fen struggle to manoeuvre Connor’s pushchair through the gate. He moves the sausages to the edge of the barbecue where they won’t burn.

  ‘I’ll go and give her a hand,’ he says to Freddie. ‘Keep an eye on Amy, would you?’

  He trots down the path and as he comes closer to Fen it’s clear that there’s trouble. Connor is not happy. Snot and tears are smeared all over his face and his clothes are all out of place. Hair is stuck to his forehead.

  ‘He wanted to go with you and Amy,’ says Fen, ‘and he was in a bad mood because he couldn’t and then when we left the house he ran into the road. Then he wouldn’t hold my hand or sit in the buggy so we had a big fight.’