‘I have to take him out,’ I say, suddenly nauseated by the sight of my mutt’s hairy bits. ‘What time was the train?’
‘Half past ten,’ she informs me, giving him a playful tap on the nose with the choc drops. ‘So don’t be too long, will you?’ She straightens. ‘I’ll sit and do my crozzle while I wait.’
Once outside, Merlin straining energetically at the lead, I stride out powerfully, letting the warm drizzle wet my face.
I still cannot believe it, and yet it is true. Not five hours have passed since I was writhing on my own kitchen floor with Nick Brown. A part of me is clamouring to go back into the house, turn the shower to hot and scrub away at the memory, but a greater part is already plotting and scheming. Five hours without him already feels like too long.
I feel for the phone in my pocket, pull it out, take hold of it. Form the words of my message as I walk down the lane. Hello…Get to work OK? If you’re there, call me. Out walking the dog, S XXX
I continue to walk. Up the wide road at the end of our lane, down the next, over the stile and on into the slim strip of woodland that borders the farmland beyond, where I let Merlin off the lead and watch him bound off into the damp ferns. I’ve taken him on this walk many times over the years, night and day, week in week out, its route so familiar I could do it with my eyes shut, every fallen tree, wildflower and crop duly noted, the times the blackberries and wild rose hips are glossy and ripe. It’s a calming and comforting ten minutes of solitude. An intake of fresh air.
Nick’s message arrives ten minutes later, just as I’m about to turn back into our lane once again. I check the time and linger on the corner to read it.
‘In a meeting. Ring you in 45 mins xxxxxxx
Standing there, my nostrils now full of the sharp scent of a summer morning I wonder at the utter insanity of the course of action I have just taken. The fact that at every juncture where I could have said no I’ve said yes. The unbelievability that the trajectory of my life could have been so radically altered in just a few short weeks. I feel like I’ve outrun the state troopers and crossed over the border. Become exiled from ordinary life. This thought, chillingly, thrills me a little.
And the peonies outside Mr Metcalf’s squat bungalow nod velvety assent as I hurry back home.
I suggested we drive my mother’s car to the station, ostensibly because using mine would have meant moving hers out of the way anyway, but in reality because I was, even then, thinking one step ahead. We arrived at the station car park fifteen minutes later, just in time to grab a pair of coffees and head up to the platform.
In some ways I was glad to be with my mother today. Whatever my worries about her domestic penetration, at least I was not at work, facing Ruth. Though I was more confident Ruth wouldn’t find any clues, she had a way of looking at me that sidetracked evidence and simply demanded my honesty. So it is with really close friends.
The train glided smoothly up to the platform and minutes later we were heading north, towards London, me staring out at the sage backdrop of a rainy-day landscape and my mother, who had laid out all her travelling Tupperware, busily embroiled in her crossword clues. I deflected her offers of corned beef sandwiches and Wotsits, and tried to lose myself in sleep. We were just beyond Caterham when my mobile phone rang.
I reached for the phone and moved to my feet in one fluid movement. A simple process as I had already decided this was what I would do. Just as I’d already decided what it was I would say. Everything in the planning. That was the thing.
‘It’ll be Ruth,’ I mouthed to my mother as I pressed the answer button and snaked my hips around the table. I stepped out into the central aisle. ‘I’ve been expecting a call from her. I’ll go out and talk to her in the corridor.’ I tilted my head to indicate out of the window. ‘Problems with reception.’
Fortunately, my mother knew as much about mobile phones as she did about Plate Tectonics so she nodded as if she did know and returned to her crossword while I weaved my way quickly up the carriage.
Nick had just come out of his meeting and his voice was low.
‘Where are you?’ he asked. ‘On the train?’
I assumed there were other people around because there was a background hum of noise. Or was it just the rush of blood in my temples? It sounded like he was walking somewhere.
‘Yes,’ I replied. I had already told him about my trip with my mother. ‘I guess we’ll be back about six. I’m not sure.’
Our short conversation was already bristling with sexual static. A woman in a raincoat squeezed past me. ‘So I’ll meet you at the station then, shall I?’ he said. This too, we had already arranged.
‘That’ll be fine.’
‘Have dinner somewhere, maybe? Would that be good for you?’
That would be good for me. That would be very good for me. But I didn’t know what to say to him all of a sudden. My words kept getting sidetracked by the input from my loins. Sexual arousal. How could anyone keep feeling like this and still function?
‘I’ll call you then, shall I?’ I managed finally. ’ Once we’re on the train home?’ I could hear the fade in and fade out of his breath as he walked. ‘About five, then? Something like –’
‘Sally,’ he interrupted softly. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine.’
His voice dropped lower still. ‘I mean, all right about this?
‘Nick, of course I’m all right,’ I replied, anxious to reassure him, the tenderness in his voice giving me a new surge of feeling. One of pure, unadulterated happiness and joy. I could feel a smile in my voice. I hoped he could hear it. ‘I’d hardly be standing in a train corridor arranging secret assignations with you if I wasn’t, would I?’
He laughed. ‘So that’s a yes, then?’
‘Nick, you know it is. God, Nick, I –’But then I had to stop myself suddenly. ‘I’ll call you at the end of the day, OK?’
I pressed the end call button and stared out unseeing through the rain. I’d very nearly told him I loved him.
My mother glanced up from her crossword and smiled as I sat down again. How uncomplicated her life seemed to be.
‘All right, my love?’ she asked me. The Tupperware boxes had gone now and in their place was a packet of snack size Mars Bars. She tapped it with her pen and shunted it towards me.
I shook my head and wedged myself back behind my side of the table.
‘Fine,’ I answered.
‘And Ruth?’
‘Oh, Ruth’s fine too. Except – ‘
She was in the middle of doing an anagram, the paper before her dotted with random letters, all written in capitals in her neat hand. I waited while she finished filling in a clue. She looked up. ‘– except that she’s a bit down right now. …..what with work, and her dad being ill … you know?’ The lie came out so smoothly, so seamlessly, so effortlessly, that I was forced to confront another unpalatable fact in a day already so overburdened with them. That I really wasn’t the person I thought I was any more. And I was clearly no longer the person everyone around me thought I was either. Or maybe I was. Maybe that was actually the real point. Maybe the good person they all knew and trusted was actually not me at all. Maybe I’d been living a lie all this time.
I embellished it with another.
‘She’s asked me round for supper,’ I told her. ‘You don’t mind, do you? I know we were talking about fish and chips or something, but, well, what with…well, her dad went home yesterday and she sounded like she could really use some company, and I really feel I have to be there for her at the moment, you know?’
I waited for my mother to look peevish about this, as I knew any display of pique on her part would make me feel immeasurably less of a complete cow than I did right now, but she didn’t. Instead, she nodded her head knowingly and looked for all the world as if having supper with me had been the very last thing on her agenda.
‘Poor thing. It must be very hard on her. Jack Bra
ithwaite – you know, or maybe you don’t –he had a colostomy end of last year. Terrible business. Crohn’s, I think it was. Or maybe Irritable Bowels?’ The man in the seats opposite shot across a startled look, to which my mother was entirely oblivious. ‘Or was it polyps, or something? What’s its name? You know, that growth thing people get. Anyway,’ she tapped her pen on her paper. ‘A growth of some sort. I’ll have to ask Betty. – well, anyway, he’s been finding it really difficult, poor love. Yes, fine. Of course, dear. No problem. Tell you what. I’ll drop you round there when we get back.’
I shook my head quickly, having anticipated even this. Lying was a frighteningly straightforward business once you got the hang of the techniques involved . ‘Oh, there’s no need, mum,’ I trotted out easily. She’s going to pick me up from the station herself. Save you worrying. On her way home from work.’
Horribly simple. And simply horrible. But my heart simply refused to care.
‘It’s certainly a nice day for it,’ my mother remarked as we emerged from Westminster tube station. The rain had cleared now, the sky a poster paint turquoise above Big Ben. ‘It’s a shame you couldn’t persuade Morgan to come too. It seems like ages since I’ve seen her.’
I wasn’t altogether sure why I hadn’t been able to. I’d thought she’d be pleased to meet up with us for lunch. Especially for a chance to see her gran. They had always been so close.
‘She’s very busy at work right now,’ I said, herding my mother on to the crossing on Whitehall. ‘It’s difficult to get away, what with work being so busy, and everything else she’s got to do at the moment.’
Morgan had sounded flustered even, which wasn’t like her at all. The strain of it all, no doubt. And who could blame her? It was a big thing to organise, a wedding. Even so, it wasn’t like Morgan to let things get on top of her. Histrionics and short temper were generally Kate’s department.
‘Anyway,’ I said now. ‘That doesn’t mean we can’t find you an outfit, does it?’ We crossed the road and started walking up towards Downing street. ‘So. What’s the drill?’
A surprisingly simple one, it turned out. Delivering a petition to ten Downing Street, it seemed, was just a case of making an appointment to do so. And as long as you didn’t come in fancy dress, as she’d told me, or carry placards, use loudhailers, wear slogans on your clothes or plan any elaborate stunts, you were made very welcome. You didn’t actually get to see the man himself, of course. But you did at least get a glimpse of his hallway – which my mother felt was almost as good.
We approached the constable guarding the wrought iron gates to find not only that he had my mother’s name written on a sheet he carried, but also that he knew exactly what we were here to petition about.
‘Any press with you?’ he enquired, smiling.
‘Oh, lordy!’ said my mother. ‘I should have thought of that, shouldn’t I? Oh, what a missed opportunity!’ She glanced across to where another group of petitioners were standing, complete with a gaggle of people with microphones and a man with a furry sound boom. She tutted. ‘What a twot. I should have told that man from the Argos to come with us, shouldn’t I?’ She considered for a moment. ‘But tell you what, Sally. I bet if I –’She thrust her bag into my hands. ‘Hang on right there.’
And then she was off like a whippet, raincoat tails flapping. And heading back, moments later, with a big smile on her face, and dragging along a man with a mike.
The policeman looked at his schedule and then back at me.
‘Your mother?’
I nodded.
‘She’s a bit of a one.’ he tapped his list. ‘She works at this refuge then, does she?’
I shook my head. ‘No. Lives next door.’
‘Well, she should,’ he said, grinning as she approached with her captive. ‘Don’t think I’d mess with her any.’
I felt fidgety and irritable by the time the train pulled up at Oxted. My mother, still flushed by her near-Blair experience, was like a terrier with a frisbee, and had been twittering excitedly to anyone within earshot almost all the way back, including an elderly gentlemen who’d got on at East Croydon, for whom she’d recited almost all of her impromptu interview, as well as pressing upon him a copy of her save-the-refuge letter and the remainder of her bag of mini Mars Bars.
But my mind was now elsewhere. We’d delivered the petition, we’d got the photos to prove it, and, yes, there might even be a line or two in the Standard, but even so I wondered how long it would now sit in an in-tray, along with all the others that must fetch up all the time. I chided myself for my negative thoughts. It was a great, unselfish thing my mother had done today, and yet all I could think about was me.
That was it really. That cruel juxtaposition. My mum slogging her guts out to do something good, something selfless, and me, busy – what was the word my mum had used for it? That was it – carrying on.
Carrying on. What a horrible turn of phrase. Was that really what I was doing with Nick? I racked my brains for other, less damning terminology I could apply to what we were doing. Carry on. Fling. Affair. Bit on the side. They were all so yeuchy and squalid. What I wanted to say was that I’d fallen in love. But I wasn’t seventeen and the words sounded stupid, even when I said them to myself. Melodramatic. The stuff of Ruth’s tales.
Nick’s car was parked in the station car park. I could see it as we crossed the footbridge. I pushed my hand into the pockets of my jeans as I walked and let the fizzy, unspeakable, carrying-on-type feelings that I could do nothing about percolate up through my stomach.
‘Now, are you sure I can’t drop you?’ my mother was saying. I hoped he wouldn’t be standing in the booking hall. I didn’t think I’d be able to stop myself from running into his arms and whispering appallingly rude things in his ear. But he was nowhere to be seen.
I kissed my mother’s cheek and shepherded her hurriedly towards the exit. ‘Ruth’ll be here in a minute,’ I said. ‘You get off home. I ‘m going to pop into the Spar for some wine.’
‘You won’t forget to put the film in?’ she reminded me.
‘First thing,’ I said. ‘I’ll have them in the post to you before lunch.’
She lingered. ‘And don’t forget to get the big prints. And get two copies, while you’re at it. I’ll send some to your Auntie Beryl in Hove. She’ll like that. Oh, and be sure to tell Jonathan to have his Secretary get the Standard, won’t you? The man did say it might go in tomorrow.’
I kissed her quiet and reminded her about the traffic. ‘Don’t want to get stuck in a jam, do you?’
She kissed me back.
‘You’re a sweetheart, you are, darling. An absolute sweetheart. Thanks for today. Give my love to Ruth, won’t you?’
I wondered, as I watched her clack away over the concourse, if she’d feel quite like that if she’d known the truth.
Canoodling. There was another one. Well, sod it. So be it. I was just turning to head back towards the station car park when I felt a tap on my shoulder.
‘Boo.’
He was standing behind me. Holding a bunch of flowers.
Pinks. With a sprig of something limp and ferny thrown in. ‘They’re gross, aren’t they?’ he said, smiling happily. ‘But they’re strictly gestural, so don’t hold them against me. I just really wanted to buy you some flowers, is all.’ We started walking towards the car park. Him and me and the flowers still cradled in his arm. I couldn’t take them from him, because someone might see.
‘They’re lovely,’ I said, wanting to hold them against him very much.
‘So. Hungry?’ he asked.
‘Not in the least.’
‘Me neither. So. What shall we do instead?’
‘Um…let me think. Nope. I can only think of one thing.’
‘Me too. So. D’you want to come back to my place?’
‘See your etchings?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘I’d like that very much.’
&
nbsp; So be it. Off we went, in his car, back to his place. And made love, on the rug, on the floor, in his hall.
Nick’s apartment – for it was very much ‘apartment’. Not at all ‘flat’ – was situated on the edge of Oxted, in a large converted Victorian house. It was on the first floor, with its own front door at the side. Provided at minimal expense by the powers that be at Drug U Like, apparently, who had, it seemed, no shortage of largesse where their thrusting UK task force were concerned.
We had moved, by now, to the living room – a high ceilinged expanse of blond strip-wood flooring, with cream coloured walls and a pair of low leather sofas. At the far end, French doors led out on to a small balcony, which had a view over the largely lawned garden. Beyond that a swathe of intensely green trees seemed to go on for miles, unbroken. He’d made me a cup of coffee. Rich dark coffee that tasted almost of chocolate. He’d also made toast for us, two slices of which I’d already eaten. I was sitting at one end of a low leather sofa, reduced now, sartorially, to a T-shirt he’d lent me, my legs outstretched and my feet in his lap.
Shame on you, Mrs Matthews, in your knickers and T-shirt, eating toast for your dinner and having sex on the floor.
Nick was just finishing his third slice of toast.
‘Marmite I miss,’ he observed, licking his fingers one by one. We had showered together in his small black and white tiled bathroom. There were expensive looking bottles on the narrow glass shelf, and the towels, of which there were many, were fragrant and snowy. He had one around his waist now, the edges falling away half way down his thighs. His legs were crossed at the ankle. He was twiddling his toes.
‘Can’t you get Marmite in America, then?’
He shook his head. ‘Not easily. I guess if you were to look hard enough. You kind of get out of the habit.’
‘You’ll have to stock up then,’ I said, licking my own fingers.
‘Oh, I’ll get round to that kind of thing before I go back, no doubt. I generally do when I’m here. Mind you, it’s getting more and more difficult. There’s only so much tomato puree you can shove in your shoes without – Sally? What is it?’
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