It Was You
Page 31
‘I spotted her near the gym and followed her home.’
‘Of course you did, Billy, of course you did. And that hooker you did a Mac-Fit of, who was found in some toilets the same day, had nothing whatsoever to do with it.’
I told the truth to Sally, over a pint one night not long after. She didn’t seem surprised or shocked, simply giving me a nod that said: well, I did warn you. Sally was more interested in talking about the two people who had hoodwinked us both, how Cherie had been sweet and friendly and a terrific masseur. How Jeff had seemed like a run-of-the-mill, bluff kind of guy. Again she apologized for being the route that Carolyn Oliver had used to get into my life, but I shook my head and thanked her for being the route with which I’d got her out of it again.
At Ally’s funeral I said a lot more than I had at Carolyn Oliver’s, to her family and to Mike’s and to people I didn’t know and to some I did, from the Lindauer Building especially. Jemma was there, and Cass; they had made up and were back in business together in their studio. I held hands with Mike by the graveside and hugged a lot of people after the committal, and just tried to get through the day like everyone else. It wasn’t easy, but we managed it. I offered to stay with Mike that evening but he said he just wanted to be with Ally’s family and so I left the place, going back to the hospital, where Sharon still had a week to go. She was upset to have missed the funeral but the doctor had forbidden her to attend, especially with the weather the way it was. I said I’d take her out to the grave when she was fit and she said she’d like that.
It was three months before we managed it. Sharon caught an infection that kept her in the Royal London another six weeks and then, when she did come home, she was told to stay indoors. When we did get there the weather had finally softened and as we stood over Ally’s grave there were birds singing and only a slight chill in the air to bother Sharon. I was wearing the scarf Jemma had made me but I didn’t really need it. We stayed for half an hour, looking at the snowdrops Mike had planted, as they bickered with their shadows. We spoke about Ally, remembering times we’d spent together and we both agreed that we’d been rarely privileged to know her. Then we stood for a moment in silence, knowing what had to come next. Eventually Sharon squeezed my hand.
’It’s time,’ she said, with a sad smile. And we walked along a neatly laid-out pathway to the small Victorian chapel, where the vicar was waiting for us.
We’d lost our baby. It had happened when Sharon was asleep, after her second operation. It was, as the doctor had warned me, inevitable really. The news was still crushing, though, to me and to Sharon when she came round. The only way to cope with it, we both believed, was to try again, as soon as Sharon was well enough. I’d never wanted anything so much as to have a baby with this girl I loved. Just looking at little Sophia, her face glowing with all the light in the universe when she saw her father, made me certain of that. Whatever edge I had to lose, I’d lose it. Sophia was a miracle and not really because of the things that had already happened to her in her short life. She was just a miracle because she existed. I wanted a miracle of my own.
After we’d said goodbye to our baby we went straight over to Mike’s, both feeling the need to see his and Ally’s child that day. Mike smiled when Sharon told him how beautiful the grave looked. Mike was exhausted, so I volunteered to cook for him and Sharon and for Ally’s sister Carla, who was staying with Mike. Once I’d got the sauce on I crept into Mike’s bedroom and sat next to Sophia’s cot, listening to her breath, marvelling at the tiny fingers holding onto the top of her blanket. I closed my eyes and inhaled the warm, musty air.
And was in my office, footsteps scampering down the corridor towards me. Then the door was opening. Over the top of my table I could see a beautiful little girl with curly black hair – Mike behind her – who already knew she could get anything she wanted from her Uncle Billy.
I opened my eyes to see Mike, sitting next to the cot beside me.
‘Sharon tells me you’re going to try again,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ I nodded. ‘The doctor says it’s possible.’
‘Well, good luck. If it’s a girl, I hope they’ll be friends. Good friends.’
‘I hope that too,’ I said, quietly so as not to wake the baby. Not able to speak any louder anyway.
Mike squeezed my arm and smiled. ‘But if it’s a boy, keep your son away from my daughter. You hear me, mate?’
Acknowledgements
The encouragement given to me during the writing of this novel was essential, inspiring and far beyond the call of duty. Heartfelt thanks then to Jane Gregory, Broo Doherty, Anya Serota, Sarah Turner and Liz Cowen.
Thanks to Janet Whitaker for her interest in my writing. I’m so excited! Appreciation also to everyone at Gregory and Company and Pan Macmillan for working so hard to help this story make it from the keyboard to the bookshelf, and beyond.
Finally, Naomi. Without you there would be no words at all. I would follow you to the ends of the earth (again).
First published in the United Kingdom in 2004 by Pan Macmillan
This edition published in the United Kingdom in 2017 by
Canelo Digital Publishing Limited
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Copyright © Adam Baron, 2004
The moral right of Adam Baron to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781911591641
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Poem on p.ix reproduced by kind permission of Curtis Brown Group Ltd, © 1955 by Donald Hall. First appeared in Exiles and Marriages, published by Viking Press, New York.
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