Something Good

by Fiona Gibson

  Hannah nodded, following Jane out of the studio and waiting as she locked the studio door. “I think,” Hannah said, “that somewhere new might be better. A fresh start for us.”

  They headed back into the house, Jane linking her arm through Hannah’s. “Yes, for the three of us,” she said, a smile breaking her lips.

  51

  “What you need,” Andy announced from his cross-legged position beside the upturned silver racing model, “is a nice normal bird. Someone to have a laugh with and go home to and get cosy.” He flung a spanner onto the filthy concrete floor.

  “Thanks,” Max said, leaning against precarious floor-to-ceiling shelving. “Thanks for your sage advice.”

  Andy looked up at him. It’s all right for you, Max thought, with your sweet, pretty girlfriend and five-year-old son and terraced house in Stoke Newington. All manageable, normal things. All the right boxes ticked. “Ever tried that Internet dating?” Andy asked.

  “You’re saying I’m desperate?” Max retorted.

  Andy grinned at him. “Yeah, I’d say so.”

  To distance himself from Andy’s appraisal of his love-life, Max installed himself at the lopsided desk at the far end of the workshop where he could at least pretend to catch up with accounts. It was weird, he thought, opening a drawer that was stuffed with mangled paperwork and quickly shutting it again. Jane’s pregnancy: there was no avoiding it, obviously. Her growing bump, discernibly bigger each time he saw her—he’d expected to find it unbearable, seeing her like that. Yet it hadn’t been unsettling in the slightest. If anything, it had forced him to get a grip on himself. She had enough to contend with without having him wittering on, trying to entice her back as if they were a couple of teenagers with no ties or responsibilities. It was time, he’d realized, that he got himself a life.

  Maybe Andy was right, he mused, flicking through invoices that were long overdue for filing. What he needed was a nice, normal bird. Although he hadn’t the first clue how to respond, he was aware that customers flirted with him occasionally. They’d bring in battered old bikes for minor repairs and start asking about the top-of-the-range models that were lined up in the window. Bikes they had no intention of buying. “Should have got her number,” Andy would tease him when one of these women had finally run out of questions and left the shop. “She was well after you, mate. Should have asked her out. Kept the customer satisfied.”

  “The thing with the Internet,” Andy was informing him now, “is there’s millions of women out there, all actively looking to meet someone. You can’t lose.”

  “Has it ever occurred to you,” Max said, aware of the superior tone that had crept into his voice, “that I’m actually happy being by myself?”

  Andy’s laugh rattled through the workshop. “Yeah. You’re bloody ecstatic. Anyone can see that.”

  Max scowled as he pushed back his chair and strode through to the shop. “You think I’m too fussy, don’t you? That I should lower my standards and go out with anyone who happens to cross my path, because I’m a desperate sad case who—”

  He stopped dead. A lone customer was standing in the middle of the shop. She looked stranded, as if she’d intended to buy a loaf or sausages and had found herself wandering into a cycle shop by mistake.

  “Hi,” Max said, conscious of his reddening cheeks.

  “Hi, Max.” The customer was Hettie. She wasn’t wearing a padded red all-in-one thingie, but a white cotton shirt and softly faded jeans. A nice, normal bird, as Andy would put it.

  “I was just—” he began.

  “I have to say,” she interrupted, “sad and desperate aren’t the words I’d use to describe you.” Her smile verged on the shy.

  Max laughed, conscious of Andy clanking around in the workshop. Martin, the new sales assistant, was polishing the inside of the front window. He’d dumped the cloth at his feet and was peering quizzically at Hettie, then Max. Max cleared his throat. “So, Hettie, how can I help you?”

  “I was just passing. Wondered how you were, after the accident and everything.”

  “Fine,” Max said brightly. “Cycling again, against doctor’s orders. How about you—are you or Jasper looking for a bike, or d’you need a repair—”

  “No,” she said. “My office is at the other side of Vicky Park. I’ve been meaning to drop in….” Her voice hushed to a murmur. “Jasper and I…we split up, soon after the holiday.”

  “I’m sorry,” Max mumbled.

  “I’m not. It had been a long time coming. Funny, sometimes it takes a holiday—being somewhere new, away from the usual distractions—to see things clearly.”

  Max nodded, wishing that Martin would get on with cleaning the window, or at least eavesdrop less blatantly. He could hear Andy humming in the workshop. “I was wondering,” Hettie added, “if you’re not too busy, maybe you’d like to come and have a bagel or something in the park….”

  “I don’t usually stop for lunch,” Max said, unsure of what to do with his hands or his face.

  “Okay. Maybe some other time.” She smiled, and cute little dimples formed on her cheeks.

  “Sure.” He watched her leaving the shop and striding jauntily past the plate-glass window.

  Martin picked up his cloth. “Nice girl,” he said.

  “Yeah,” Max murmured.

  A moment later, Andy emerged from the workshop clutching a tire. “I think,” he said, raking his hair with his oil-smeared free hand, “we can manage without you for an hour or so.”

  “But I—”

  “Off you go. Lovely day and all that. Vicky Park, she said. She’s probably down by the Swan Pond. I’d get down there if I were you.” He grinned, winked, then turned on his heel and disappeared back into the workshop.

  Max was about to protest when an image popped into his mind. Jane’s mother, Nancy, in Camden Market. He and Jane had only split up a few months before. He’d spotted Nancy and had tried—and failed—to duck in to a shop whose doorway was festooned with Peruvian knitted hats. “Max?” Nancy had called sharply. “How are things?”

  “Fine,” was the only reply he could muster.

  She’d frowned at him, those beetly eyebrows scooting down toward the bridge of her nose, and said, “For goodness’ sake, you look terrible. You need to start taking care of yourself.”

  Max had been shocked. He’d expected a diatribe about letting down Jane, letting down Hannah—a furious detailing of his numerous shortcomings. “You look half-starved,” Nancy had added. “Come back with me. I’ve got half a steak pie in the fridge. It’s only a few days old—I’m sure it’s perfectly fine.”

  He’d smiled, awash with relief, and said, “Thanks, but I’m meeting a friend for lunch.” A male friend, he’d wanted to yell after her, but Nancy had already disappeared into the crowd.

  And now, remembering her words, he heard himself telling Andy and Martin that he wouldn’t be long—half an hour at the most—and would have his cell if anyone needed him. He stepped out of the shop, into the dusty afternoon and walked, as fast as his knee would allow, in the direction of Victoria Park.

  Maybe, he thought, aware that he was smiling inanely, this is the kind of thing the sad and desperate get up to on a Thursday afternoon.

  52

  The sound juddered through the room. Jane shifted in bed—the only way she could be remotely comfortable was to lie on her side—and glanced at the digital clock on the bedside table. 5:47 a.m. Saturday. Too early to wake up; not even properly morning.

  It came again, swelling and gripping her—not a noise after all but a pain, heavy and all-engulfing. Catching her breath, she pushed herself up in bed. Braxton hicks, she told herself. Hannah had, rather sweetly, told her what they were at breakfast a few days ago: practise contractions that could occur weeks before labor. She’d read about them in the library and assured Jane that they were nothing to panic about. After all, she had more than three weeks to go.

  Jane tensed, focusing on the pale, gray dawn as she waited f
or another wave. 5.58 a.m. In an attempt to steady herself, she focused on ordinary, Saturday things: taking preliminary sketches to Father O’Reilly at St. Saviours Church. Hannah and Dylan had planned to take a train to Brighton for the day. He loved the seaside in winter, Hannah had told her. Of course, Zoë had snorted that hanging out on a beach at the tail end of November was stupid and pointless, but gaining Zoë’s approval no longer seemed to feature on Hannah’s radar.

  Another wave came, even fiercer this time. Jane’s breath caught like a web in her throat. She swiveled out of bed and stood up unsteadily, placing one hand flat against the bedroom wall. She focused on sounds: the hum of distant cars, a bunch of people laughing, maybe coming home from a club. It was too early to wake Hannah. No point in disturbing her for a false alarm.

  Jane made her way on to the landing and downstairs to the living room where she sat in semidarkness. Hannah had insisted she stopped working in the studio—“What if there’s lead dust in the air, Mum?”—so she’d brought much of her equipment into the house. It was oddly comforting, being bossed around by her daughter, being cared for. A piece of hardboard, on which she’d been cutting glass segments, dominated the living room floor.

  A bath. That’s what she’d have: a soothing, chocolate-scented bath. It might ease the contractions or make them fade away entirely. She headed back upstairs and started to fill the tub. She checked the chocolate truffle deluxe foam, but the bottle was empty.

  And another wave came. Breathe. Breathe. Jane crouched on the bathroom floor, her arms out in front of her, gripping the bath’s cold edge. Breathe. Breathe. Another wave, more urgent this time, leaving only a short space for her to compose herself in preparation for the next. Then there was no preparation, no thinking time; just her own voice crying, “Han? Hannah!”

  And suddenly her daughter was there beside her, her hair sticking up at odd angles and her eyes filled with fear. “Mum,” she cried, “what’s happening?”

  “I don’t know. I’m getting these pains but it can’t be labor because it’s too early to—”

  “What if it is?” Hannah put an arm around her back. “What if the baby’s coming?”

  “You’d better phone someone….”

  “Who?”

  “Anyone. Max. Call your dad. Han, please.”

  Hannah hurried downstairs, returning moments later. “No answer. He probably didn’t hear his machine. I tried Zoë’s number, too, in case he’s round there, in case they’re back together—”

  “The hospital,” Jane cut in. “We’d better phone the hospital.”

  She pulled herself upright, the thin cotton of her nightie clinging to her back. Gripping each other’s hands, they made their way downstairs. There, Jane scrambled through her ancient phonebook for the hospital’s number and tapped it out on the phone. “I—I think I’m in labor,” she blurted out.

  “Are you having contractions?” came the prim, female voice on the line. She sounded so ordinary, like a hairdresser might speak—so what can we do for you today?

  “Yes,” Jane said. “They’re—how far apart are they, Han?”

  Hannah’s bewildered expression said: how should I know?

  “I’m not sure,” Jane said.

  “Have your waters broken?”

  “No, I—”

  “And your due date is…” The woman sounded bored now, as if Jane’s situation lacked the urgency required to keep her attention.

  “Not for another three weeks,” Jane said. “But—” Another wave. Jane slammed down the phone and sank onto the sofa.

  What happened next came so thick and fast she was aware only of each contraction juddering through her. Random thoughts like hot towels—should Hannah get some hot towels?—shot through her head. Hannah was on the phone again, but her voice was muddled amid Jane’s cries. “It’s okay,” Hannah soothed her, “it’s okay. I’ve called the ambulance, they should be here any minute….”

  The door flew open, and it wasn’t a paramedic but a blond woman who’d clearly shot out of bed. Despite an overwhelming urge to push, Jane registered pink spotty pajamas with a sweater thrown over the top.

  “Veronica?” she gasped. “What—”

  Veronica clattered toward her and crouched to grip her hand. “I came as soon as I heard the message, Jane. Is it coming? Have you called—”

  “Yes,” Hannah snapped, “of course I’ve called an ambulance.”

  “God, Jane,” Veronica cried. “The baby really is coming. I can see the head….”

  There was a huge shifting downward, and a pain so acute that it almost felt like nothing at all—like standing under a shower so scalding it actually felt cold. Jane knew what was happening, knew that no one could stop it, even had there been medical people here instead of just a sixteen-year-old girl and a woman who concocted aphrodisiac snacks. She was no longer scared because she could feel the baby being born, hear its cry.

  It sounded so new and tiny. Jane sank to the floor as Veronica placed the baby, still attached by its cord, in her arms. She could smell the child—a soft, sweet smell, as if it had been born ready-powdered. Jane felt high—the woozy high that followed white wine on a hot summer’s day—and lost track of all time.

  More people had arrived now, wearing white jackets with fluorescent strips on their arms. A silver case was opened, the cord cut. Jane looked down at the sleepy face with dark, penetrating eyes and a shock of sticky black hair. “Congratulations, Jane,” came a voice, someone’s voice she didn’t know.

  “It’s a boy, Mum,” Hannah murmured. “I’ve got a brother, Mum. It’s not just me anymore.”

  “Are they okay?” Veronica was asking.

  Jane gazed at the big eyes that had fixed firmly on hers, vaguely registering someone say, “Everything’s fine, but we’ll take Jane and the baby to hospital. Jane, would you like your daughter and friend to come with you?”

  She looked up. “Yes,” she said, smiling, then returning to those eyes, “of course I’d like them to come.”

  53

  This wasn’t a Max thing to do at all: take an impromptu Saturday off work and be driven to Cornwall by a woman who he’d known—at least, known properly—for just a month. It wasn’t Max behavior to book into a small hotel, agree to stay a second night, then find himself staring into an estate agent’s window in a sleepy fishing village.

  To rent: charming two-bedroomed cottage with small garden overlooking Darling Bay. All amenities including newly refurbished kitchen and loft currently being used as a studio.

  They’d come to the village where Hettie had grown up. He hadn’t known Hettie was from Cornwall when they’d been in Chamonix; he’d written her off as a fluffy PR or media type, in a Veronica mold, the type of which there were millions in London. In fact, on holiday he hadn’t given her much thought at all. That lunch in Victoria Park had changed all that. He’d noticed nothing but Hettie. The time had whooshed by, and by the time he’d checked his watch it was 5:00 p.m. and he’d missed a whole afternoon’s work.

  They hadn’t discussed when they’d meet up again or whether she’d come back to his place for supper. It had just happened. They’d picked up chicken, salady bits and white wine on the way home. They’d cooked together, chatting and sipping wine, and she’d stayed the night. They’d had breakfast together—she hadn’t scoffed at the Coffee Time biscuits in his cupboard—and the first thing he’d done after work that day was call her and ask her to come over. It had been as easy as riding a bike.

  “D’you want to look at it?” he asked her now.

  She tore her gaze away from the picture of the cottage and looked at him. “I don’t know, Max. I’d made up my mind to move back here after Jasper and I split up—he was the one who’d wanted to live in London. But now…” She shrugged.

  “Looking won’t hurt,” he told her.

  “Are you sure about giving up the shop?”

  Max nodded. He wouldn’t be giving it up as such; just handing over the reins to Andy, who
was as obsessed with cycling as ever. It was different for Max. Since the accident, he’d known he wouldn’t ride competitively again, but it no longer seemed to matter. He’d spent sixteen years building up the business and could have expanded, opened a second branch, yet he had never had the push to make it happen. Maybe that should have told him something—that someone else, someone with more drive and ambition than he could ever muster, should steer Spokes to greater things…world domination, maybe.

  Hettie smiled reassuringly and squeezed his hand, then pushed open the estate agent’s door. Max followed her in, Jane’s offer ringing clear in his head: You could take over Mum’s clippings library. It just ticks along these days—it wouldn’t take all of your time. She’d be happy—she has no intention of coming back and wanted it tossed—but it seems such a shame, after all those years’ work. What d’you say, Max?

  The thought of living here, far away from his miserable street with its overflowing skips, made him feel lifted and free. Hannah could spend the summers here. Jane could come down with the baby. And Dylan—weren’t he and Hannah always jaunting off to the coast? The cottage was tiny but he’d squeeze each of them in somehow.

  The young estate agent was on the phone but motioned for Max and Hettie to sit down at his desk. Hettie caught his eyes and grinned, and Max tried to quell the excitement that whirled in his stomach. Was he really such a screw-up when, somehow, through all the mess with Jane and Veronica he’d somehow wound up here?

  The estate agent finished his call. “Sorry about that. Now, how can I help you?”

  Max was aware of the smile flickering across his lips, and Hettie’s fingers brushing against his as he said, “We’re looking for somewhere to rent.”