One Day, Someday

by Lynne Barrett-Lee

  He glances at his watch. ‘Oh, no,’ he says. ‘No rush. I won’t stay long if Nick’s already here. Just say hello. Give him that.’ He nods at the fruit basket and his eyes narrow slightly. I can’t be sure if his faint smile is accusing or not. I hand it back to him. ‘So,’ he adds, ‘why don’t you wait for me down here and then we’ll go back together? I’ll only be a few minutes. Yes?’

  True to his word, he is back within a quarter of an hour and we make our way out to the cab rank outside. He, like me, seems happy not to be staying any longer.

  ‘He doesn’t look good,’ he comments, as he holds a rear door open for me. I shunt across the seat to make room for him beside me, but he puts his case there instead, then clunks the door shut and walks round the car to get in the front with the driver. ‘But then,’ he adds, doing up his seat belt, ‘he wouldn’t right now, would he? But they seem reasonably happy with his progress so far.’

  ‘I hadn’t realized he already had heart problems,’ I said. ‘Iona had never said. It must be like living with a time bomb.’

  He nods. ‘Exactly. But at least she has Nick with her now. He said to thank you, by the way, for being there for her.’

  ‘Poor Iona,’ I say. But I’m talking to the back of his neck.

  When we get back to the office it is almost four thirty and the telephone in Joe’s office is ringing. He goes off to answer it while I start trying to schedule some interviews for all the applicants who’ve written. But I can’t seem to concentrate. All I can think of is how Iona must be feeling, sitting there contemplating the possibility of being widowed. Being alone. With her only son living so far away. And I think about Leo, all the hopes I have for him. How I want him to see the world, do things, have adventures. And how my own life will change when he no longer needs me. How much of it I’ve put on hold. How well I’ve prescribed for the needs he has now. I try to imagine myself next year, knee deep in oil paint and canvas, the smell of turps sharp in my nostrils and the dry feel of clay in my hands, but the idea, which I’ve held dear for so long now, seems insubstantial and silly and, well, not really the answer, somehow. When I go to start franking the mail I notice that the Cona machine’s still on. This morning feels like an age ago and, as if to remind me, it’s snapping and hissing, and what little coffee there was when we left is now a sorry round stain in the base of the pot.

  By the time we leave the office the shops on Queen Street are already shut, and even though the sun has now muscled its way through the cloudbase and is winking gaily off the swirly rainbow puddles on the pavement, the world feels a markedly more melancholy place. And me with it. It has been many months since the loss of my father has visited me so acutely - so physically - and I’m anxious to get home and put my arms round my son. But I recall that Del took Simeon and Leo swimming after school this afternoon and won’t be back until eightish, and that the house I will be returning to will be empty. No family to enfold me in its reassuring bosom. I wonder if Joe feels that way at times too. We’re both of us going home to no one tonight. I wonder if he feels that way now, perhaps. I wonder if, like me, he’d rather have some company for a while. As we approach Starbucks I almost find myself saying, ‘God, you know what? I could kill for a coffee. Shall we grab a coffee? I mean sit down and have one. Here? Together? We’ll be sitting in traffic for half an hour in any case. What do you think?’

  But I don’t. I rehearse it in my head about six times, but I can’t seem to do it. Because he might say no. Because his stride is too purposeful. His expression too impenetrable. Plus I’m aware that he keeps glancing down at his watch.

  And, as it turns out, I’m quite glad that I haven’t. Starbucks goes by, then the bank, then the cake shop. Then we get to the car, get in and set off. We’re just heading out of the city when he says, ‘Take a left up ahead into Llandennis Avenue, would you?’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, as I do so. ‘Are you not going home, then?’

  He shakes his head. ‘No. Drop me up on the right there. Past that car over there.’

  ‘The white Fiesta, you mean?’

  ‘That’s the one,’ he confirms. ‘Great. Thanks. That’ll be fine.’

  So he does want some company tonight, but not mine. He takes out his suitcase and, as I drive off, he waves. Then heads up a path to a house I remember. I haven’t been there myself, but it’s called Cedar Folly, and I certainly know of some flowers that have.

  19

  Thursday 7 June

  ‘So, anyway, he’s all right for the moment, at least. No further episodes overnight, and when Joe spoke to Iona this afternoon he was still doing OK. But it was all a bit traumatic. Brought back everything with Dad, you know? Made me feel quite tearful, in fact. And lonely, somehow. It’s so strange being thrust into the middle of something so personal. I kept thinking about how awful it would be if he had died. How Iona’s memories of the day would always be that the only person there to comfort her was someone who’d never even met him. And it’s not as if I know her terribly well, is it? I was really pleased to see Joe, I can tell you.’

  ‘Ah,’ says Del. ‘And has he forgiven you for last Saturday?’

  My, but she’s quick. ‘I don’t think so. He didn’t say anything about it. Didn’t say much about anything, really. And he was off round his girlfriend’s straight after work so I didn’t get a chance to bring it up anyway.’

  ‘Hmm,’ she goes. ‘Hmm. And do I detect a note of mild reproach in your voice, sister dear?’

  She opens a bag of Kettle chips and shakes the contents into a bowl. We’re at my place this evening, doing good deeds for the school. Specifically, for the school fete, which takes place this coming Saturday, and which, round these parts, is generally organized to within an inch of its life, and for which we, along with the half-dozen or so mums who are due here in an hour, are preparing and freezing about two hundred Welsh cakes at the behest of one Caryl Phelps, whose word here is law.

  I’m not on the PTA myself but I have agreed this year to become one of the merry band of PTA helpers, which inspired category of inclusion is perfect for the likes of me: it means I help out when I can, which up to now hasn’t been often, but that I’m spared the obligation of attending the meetings. (And, this being Cefn Melin, they are many and lengthy and involve bullet points, flip-charts, action plans, profit projections, parent-preference profiles, in-depth event cost/ benefit analysis and, most stressfully, Caryl Phelps’s homemade cinnamon snaps.) But those are just the meetings. Nothing else in Cefn Melin seems to be done without recourse to wine, which is much more my scene. Plus as I see so little of the other mums it will, I’ve decided, be a good way to make friends.

  I rip the top off some Pringles and swallow another mouthful of wine. As social events go, it’s hardly the pinnacle of cool and edgy, but it’s the best I have right now, so I intend making the most of it.

  ‘Not at all,’ I tell her indignantly. ‘Why would you think that?’

  She lifts the bowl from the little stack in front of her and reaches for a bag of pretzels. Then looks at me pointedly. ‘Well, correct me if I’m wrong, but you do seem to be exhibiting a certain irritation at the developments in his love-life right now. And given …’

  She pauses to consider. I don’t wait. ‘Given what?’

  ‘Well, given that Joe Delaney has been your number-one topic of conversation these last few weeks, I can’t help but wonder if you aren’t developing a bit of a thing for him, Lu. That’s all.’

  I spread the Pringles in a little arc round the edge of a plate. ‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Del.’

  ‘It has been known. He is, after all, a very attractive man. Or hadn’t you noticed?’

  I decide not to comment. ‘That’s as may be,’ I say, ‘but I can assure you I’m developing nothing of the sort. I don’t deny that now I’ve got to know him a little better I like him a lot better. And I don’t deny that I feel pretty awful that I’ve given him the impression that I - well, that he - oh, I don’t know. I just don’t li
ke that he’s being so off with me, that’s all.’ That maybe now that he’s got to know me a little better, he likes me a whole lot less. Which I don’t say.

  ‘But is he?’ she asks.

  ‘Being off with me? Yes, he is.’

  ‘Sure it’s not just that he’s not being on with you, particularly? Decided he’s not going to bother?’

  ‘Bother? Bother with what?’

  ‘Bother with you, sweetie. Romantically, that is.’

  There is a twinkle in her eye that I don’t like the look of. It has nothing to do with the surgery.

  ‘Bother with me romantically? What on earth are you on about?’

  I’m not sure why I say that. I’m not sure why I feel the need to come over all incredulous about this because the notion of Joe Delaney having, at one point, been interested in me romantically is hardly news. Not to me, at least, even if Del doesn’t know about it. It is fact. Was fact, at any rate. In a minor, spur-of-the-moment sort of way. But not that interested. Clearly. I know because I checked. ‘Since when,’ I add innocently, ‘was Joe Delaney interested in me?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Lu! You know he was.’

  Yes, I do. But she doesn’t. Does she? She pops a pretzel into her mouth and crunches it, grinning. I find I don’t like the fact that she says ‘was’ too.

  ‘I know nothing of the sort,’ I lie, wishing she’d tell me something else. Has she seen him or something? And has he mentioned me to her? Has he said something about me? ‘Besides,’ I point out, ‘he’s been seeing this Jeannine woman since I started there. If it’s any concern of mine. Which it’s not.’ Once or twice a week, in fact. Three lots of flowers.

  ‘Hmm,’ she goes on. ‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much. Anyway, it’s funny you should mention it, because I ran into Julia at the doctor’s yesterday. She was asking after you and I’d been telling her all about your chauffeuring exploits - and she mentioned that she’d seen Joe at a party on Sunday and she’d said he was with someone. Said she didn’t know who. Tall woman? Blonde?’

  Which reminds me exactly why it is that I don’t want to own up to any sort of anything. On either his part or mine. My fingers are still smoking from the last time I burnt them. My fingers have been smoking for half my life, I think. ‘I wouldn’t know,’ I say lightly. ‘I’ve never met any of his harem.’

  ‘And you don’t much care anyway, right?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘Precisely it is, then,’ she sings, by way of answer. ‘Now. Almost eight. Shall I take these on through?’

  What am I to make of all this? What am I to make of the fact that my sister thinks she can detect something in my voice that makes her think I have a bit of a thing for Joe? What am I to make of the fact that when he arrived at the hospital yesterday what I really wanted him to do was put his arms (OK, arm) around me? What am I to make of the fact that I know, I just know, that had he done so I would have felt so much better? What am I to make of the fact that his manner - his ‘not bothering’, as Del would have it - is getting to me so much? What am I to make of the fact that I have started blow-drying my hair in the mornings?

  I don’t know. But there is one thing I do know.

  That all of it makes me feel anxious and funny in a way that I can’t quite articulate, somehow.

  Friday 8 June

  ‘We’re going to need a temp,’ says Joe.

  I have a headache. Which is what you get if you roll Welsh-cake dough out till one in the morning. Which is what you get when you drink red wine from a plastic bottle. Which is what you get mainly when you don’t sleep a wink because your brain refuses to obey your instruction that it will cease its relentless dissection of everything a certain man utters or does.

  I look up. ‘A temp?’

  ‘Yes. A temp,’ he repeats, patting his forehead and grinning. ‘Doh! A temp while Iona’s away. Someone who can do the payroll this week, at the very least. You don’t do PAYE, do you?’ I wish I did suddenly. ‘No. Thought not. So can you get on to the agency for me and see if they can sort something out? They’ve got a woman, Clare something - they’ll know who I mean. See if she’s available. Anyway,’ he says, ‘better crack on. When’s the next one due in, by the way?’

  By ‘next one’ he means the next engineer on the list. I’ve organized six interviews for today and another six on Monday. He has five posts to fill for the Bath and Birmingham jobs and needs three of them available for the beginning of July. The first, a young guy with a ring in his lip and a sheaf of dog-eared certificates, has been deemed a ‘possibility’ and given an asterisk. The next is due half an hour from now. I give Joe the form and he trots back to his office while I pick up the address book and reach for the phone.

  Oh, it’s all go without Iona. Which is good, because much as I would enjoy the chance to stare out of the window and watch the seagulls for a while, it would, I suspect, lead me down avenues of speculation that would be seriously bad for my health. Despite my conviction that to do so is folly, I am, rather stressfully, noticing Joe today. Like Del with her new laser-beam vision, I’m suddenly seeing. With a great deal more clarity than I have up to now. I’m seeing the way the hair at the back of his neck forms little glossy question marks against his collar. I’m seeing the way his shoes are so shiny. I’m seeing the way his right eyebrow is always arched slightly higher than the left one. How it makes his expression look ironic somehow. I’m seeing how when he smiles, the groove on his forehead is replaced by two little clefts at the edges of his mouth.

  This is pathetic indeed. This is ditsy behaviour. And this is all my sister’s fault.

  If it wasn’t for my sister I wouldn’t be behaving like this. I know I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t even be feeling like this. I certainly wouldn’t be …

  ‘Lu?’

  I look up from my desk. He’s back in my office again. All six feet two of him. All tensile and honed, and capable of hefting an AVH Excelsior-six eleven heavy-duty … Oh, God.

  ‘Hello, you,’ he says, dipping his head to smile engagingly at me. ‘Err, anybody in? Just remembered. Next Thursday. Suppose we should really get things organized, shouldn’t we?’

  ‘Thursday?’

  ‘The Luxotel development meeting. The one in Birmingham. Had you forgotten? It is in the diary. Meant to remind you about it last week, but with one thing and another - anyway. It’s just going to be the one night again. Not going to be a problem for you, is it?’

  I had not forgotten at all. Oh, no.

  ‘Um. Oh, yes,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure. I’ll have to see if it’ll be OK with Del. Shall I call her?’

  He nods. ‘So we’ll have to get the temp in Thursday morning, ideally. I have to be at the hotel by three for the meeting. Oh, and there’s a dinner, by the way. Did I mention that to you? Black-tie thing. Bit glitzy. Better bring a frock.’

  There are lots of things in Joe’s diary. Lots of appointments, lots of squiggles, lots of impenetrable acronyms. Several mentions along the lines of ‘J - 7 p.m.’ and so on. (Though no mention of a party on Sunday 3 June. Just a coffee ring straddling the whole weekend.) What there is, of course - and has been for some weeks now - is an entry for this coming Thursday, because I was the one who put it there, but since the events of the past few days my attitude to it has shifted considerably. Where once it was just a date (and one that at the time I hadn’t assumed would have much impact on me - I thought he’d be driving himself by then) it has, this week, taken on a distinctly looming quality. Much as, in fact, a real date would. Would he ask me to take him? Would he not ask me to take him? And, much more to the point, if he did, would I go?

  Dinner, indeed. Glitzy indeed. Frock indeed.

  Saturday 9 June

  In my diary - which is not a diary at all, but a Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe calendar full of dental appointments and swimming lessons - there is, conversely, just the one thing. And it is the Cefn Melin Primary School Fete, which this year is taking the form of a medieval extravaganza. Truly, can
there be another school in Britain that sports a jousting arena by the bric-a-brac stall?

  And Del, who is always depressingly proficient with a Singer and a selection of bargain-price remnants, has provided me with a very fetching costume, in which to lure unsuspecting punters towards my sugar-sprinkled, raisin-studded delights. So here I am, in a persistent drizzle, crouched over a Baby Belling in a length of mock-sacking, slapping Welsh cakes around and saying, ‘Prithee, my lordship! Prithee, my lady! Fare thee quite well on this exceeding fair morn? Wouldst thou like to make merry with my fine bakes today?’

  Which is no bloody way to spend a Saturday, I can tell you, but the hierarchy at PTA plc dictates that it will be so. By the time I’m eligible for the dizzy heights of bar duty, Leo will be old enough to hire a car in Cadiz. Have given him enough money to make a bid for control of the entire Pokemon empire, and have neglected to remember to eat any lunch. But do not want a Welsh cake. Do not want a Welsh cake.

  ‘Oooh! Welsh cakes!’ says a voice. ‘Now that’ll be a treat!’

  The voice (one of many expressing similarly effusive sentiments - I sometimes feel the Welsh cake is a deeply overrated bakery item) is one that I recognize. For it is that of Liz, Joe’s glamorous ex-mother-in-law, who has fetched up at my stall with a similarly smiling friend.

  ‘How much are they?’ Liz enquires. Then, ‘Oh, hello! Thought I knew you! It’s Lu, isn’t it? Goodness! Did you make all these yourself?’

  ‘Not quite all,’ I admit, impressed that she has remembered my name. ‘Only the first three hundred thousand. How many would you like? I give discounts for bulk purchases.’

  She turns to her friend. ‘Lu works for Joe, Pam,’ she explains, ‘while his regular girl’s on maternity leave. And look at you,’ she continues admiringly. ‘As if you’re not busy enough, you’re giving up your Saturday for the school. Well done, you!’