Carol grinned. ‘Come on.’ I followed her to the lifts, and when we got out at the top floor, she beckoned me along the corridor and into The Top Table, the restaurant for staff and postgrad students and definitely the nicest place to eat on campus. Abi was there, and Eliza and Liam. Then I saw Kitty and Rebecca, and Adam. It was unusual for so many of my colleagues to be in the same place at the same time, but there they all were, standing around in groups and sipping cava. It was only when I noticed that the room was decorated with white and silver balloons and bunting that it dawned on me this was all for me. Tears rushed to my eyes – ever since I’d been pregnant I seemed to cry at the drop of a hat. As I groped in my pocket for a tissue, I spotted Phil, the head of humanities, coming towards me. ‘Leah.’ He beamed and put a fatherly arm around my shoulder. I hadn’t realised he even knew my name. ‘Come and sit down. Let’s get you a drink.’
‘Orange juice, please.’ I smiled. ‘Or sparkling water.’
‘Oh, a tiny drop of fizz won’t hurt, will it? Just this once?’
‘Probably not, but I’d rather the orange juice.’ I could see his disappointment. Probably thought me a party pooper, but I was so relieved to have hung onto this pregnancy, there was no way I was taking any chances. Phil banged a spoon on a glass to get everyone’s attention, and then launched into an incredibly flattering speech about how I’d made such a mark here with my first full-time teaching position, how impressed he’d been with my achievements over the last five years and how well liked and respected I was among staff and students. For a few seconds it genuinely didn’t register that he was talking about me, and as soon as I started properly taking it in, I felt myself tearing up yet again.
Then everyone was clapping and smiling and he was handing me an envelope. I stood up to shake his hand and take the envelope. ‘Thank you, everyone. Thank you so much.’ I tried to beam my smile around the whole room. ‘I’m so touched by—’ I began, but Phil was pointing to the envelope. ‘Open it, then.’
I was thrown for a second. I assumed it contained gift vouchers, and looking at them in front of everyone felt a bit mercenary, like counting money. But Phil looked quite excited, so I slipped my thumb under the flap and took out the paper inside. It was a picture of a beautiful wooden cot. ‘It’s being handmade,’ Phil said. ‘A family firm in Buxton. It converts to a toddler bed when the baby’s old enough.’ He smiled. ‘I know it’ll be a while before you’ll need a cot, but it’s all paid for – just call them and say when you want it delivered.’
I felt the tears start spilling down my face. Someone produced a tissue and there was a chorus of aahs from around the room.
‘I’m sorry,’ I managed to say between blubs. ‘I knew today would be emotional, but . . .’ I paused and buried my face in the tissue. ‘I can’t think why I bothered to put make-up on this morning.’ Everyone laughed, and I was struck by how much I was going to miss them all, even if it was only for six months.
By the time the little presentation was over, someone had taken everything except the bouncy chair down to my car and loaded it in. Carol was going to drop the chair off later. As I drove home in the sunshine, the boot laden with gifts, I was aware that I was still smiling. I was surrounded by love and happy thoughts, and I felt buoyed up by it, as if I was floating. It was a beautiful day, and I kept all the windows down so I could feel the warm air puffing into the car. Adrian had suggested going out to eat tonight, but I didn’t really want to be inside some stuffy restaurant on such a gorgeous evening, so I decided to stop on the way and pick up some bits and pieces for a barbecue – Adrian would like that, and it meant he could have a drink. Maybe we could invite a few of the neighbours over. As I pulled into the supermarket car park, I was picturing the evening, Adrian in charge of the barbecue, swigging from a bottle of beer and chatting with Richard and Andy as he turned sausages with the giant tongs. I could almost hear the sizzling, and I could see the clouds of smoke that would fill the air with the delicious savoury scent of flame-charred meat. I made a mental shopping list: chicken, prawns, sausages, maybe some mushrooms and peppers for veggie kebabs, some salad leaves, tomatoes, crusty bread. Nice and simple. I wasn’t sure if we had enough tea lights to dot around the garden, so I added those to the list. I parked the car and turned off the ignition, idly wondering if Diane next door would bring a bowl of her famous coleslaw. I’d pop in and invite her as soon as I got back. I hauled my bulk out of the car and started to walk towards the entrance. I felt suddenly light-headed and a bit unsteady on my feet. I’d got out of the car too quickly, most likely. But then a surge of nausea stopped me in my tracks. It was probably just the heat, but I had to lean against one of the cars to stop my legs from buckling. I waited for the nausea to pass, one hand automatically supporting my bump, the other resting on top, and I tried to recall when I’d last felt the baby move.
As the nausea enveloped me a second time, I was acutely aware of the hot tarmac beneath the soles of my sandals and a tingling sensation as the sun burned the tender skin at the back of my neck. There was an increasing sense of chill in my stomach, and a second later, I felt the blood in my veins start to turn to ice.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
NOW
It’s still snowing when I leave the house, but it’s only light and the roads aren’t too bad. I throw my stick on the back seat in case I need to walk any distance, then I check the email printout and set the satnav according to the postcode. It’s just gone eleven, so there’s no rush hour, but I forgot to allow for the fact that it’s the last Saturday before Christmas. I haven’t exactly forgotten about Christmas, it just hasn’t really registered. That reminds me, I must call Paul – he’s still trying to persuade me to go with him and Helen to Chris and Judy’s. Maybe I should make the effort.
The shopping traffic thins as I head further out into the Peaks. It’s been falling more heavily up here – it’s quite a bit higher. There’s a frosting of snow across the moors, and the fields beyond are a vast tablecloth of white. The road is fairly clear, though, and I’m in Castledene in less than twenty minutes, by which time the snow has given way to a light drizzle. The satnav tells me that my destination is on the right. I pull up outside a church, opposite a small terrace of grey stone houses with big front gardens.
There’s a Christmas tree to the side of the bay window of number nine, but the lights aren’t switched on, although there’s a flickering blueish light from a television further back in the room, so it looks like they’re in. The garden is well kept – a lawn, a couple of small trees, raised flower beds and a few shrubs. A low wall separates the garden from the street, and a crazy-paved path leads up to the front door. I strain my eyes but I can’t see much more from here, so I start the car again and drive further into the village, passing a newsagent’s, a hairdresser’s, a DIY store and a post office. There’s a Co-op further on with a small car park, so I pull in and manoeuvre the car into one of the few free spaces. I pick up my stick from the back seat, then change my mind and put it back – I’ll be less conspicuous without it.
The Co-op is reasonably busy, thank goodness. Some of these Peak District villages are so small that everyone knows everyone else, and if you haven’t lived there for about thirty years, you stand out like a beacon. There’s nothing I really need, but I buy a few things – cigarettes, teabags, muesli, pasta, a couple of jars of pesto – enough to fill a carrier bag. Then I walk as purposefully as I can back in the direction I came. As I approach number nine, I slow a little and glance through the glass as casually as possible. The television is still on, cartoons of some sort, but there doesn’t seem to be anyone watching it. A dark-coloured sofa takes up one wall and there are a couple of huge red beanbags against the other. I can see a large mirror over the fireplace, a Picasso print in a clip frame and a few framed photos on the wall opposite the window, though I can’t make out the details. There’s definitely no one in the room, but at least that means I can take another look on my way back to the car without being spotte
d.
I walk on for another few minutes until I come to a patch of grass where there’s an ornate wooden memorial bench. I need to rest if I’m going to be able to walk back to the car without being in pain, so I pull my coat tightly around me and sit huddled on the damp bench while I try to decide what to do. It’s either keep walking past until whoever lives at number nine makes an appearance in their sitting room, or come back later. It’ll be almost dark by half past three, and maybe that time on a Saturday afternoon is when a small child is likely to be watching television. If I come back then, maybe I could just sit in the car across the road without being seen. I sigh. Why am I even doing this? What am I hoping for, exactly – that I’ll recognise the child and suddenly remember who he is?
The bench is cold and I’m aware of the drizzle settling on my skin and wetting my hair, so I pull up my hood and get to my feet, picking up my shopping with one hand and automatically reaching for my stick with the other. Shit. I left it in the car. My back is starting to hurt now, and there are twinges down my leg, so there’s no way I’ll be able to keep walking back and forth past the house. I get to my feet and start making my way to the car. If there’s still no sign of life in that front room, I’ll come back later.
As I near the house, I see the front gate swing open and a small child wearing a mustard-yellow anorak step out onto the narrow pathway. I only catch a glimpse of his face before he squats down to examine something he’s spotted on the ground. ‘Oliver!’ A woman’s voice comes from behind the hedge. ‘You naughty boy, I said wait for me.’ The child glances back through the gate at his mother before turning back to whatever it is he’s studying on the ground. My instinct is to cross to the other side of the road, but there’s virtually no pathway on that side so it would look odd. The woman is wearing a big, dark coat with a hood, her face almost completely hidden. As I get nearer, I drop my gaze in case she tries to make eye contact, then I take out my phone and pretend I’m checking a message. As I pass, the child stands up, the hood of his anorak falling back and revealing a full head of thick, dark hair, sticking up a little at the crown. He looks up at me, and it is as if I am hit by a thunderbolt that paralyses me, pins me to the ground. A chill engulfs my whole body, like someone has thrown cold water over me. Then, just as suddenly, I feel hot and dizzy and faint and there’s a buzzing in my ears and . . . oh, my God, I’m going to be sick. I manage to take a few steps so I can lean against the low wall that fronts one of the houses. I close my eyes and concentrate on my breathing. Thankfully, the nausea passes, but my hands are sweating and trembling and my legs have gone shaky.
In that split second before the child took his mother’s hand and trotted off in the other direction, I saw that I did recognise him; his features are as familiar to me as if they were my own.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
NOW
Somehow, I make it to the car. I collapse in the front seat and slump over the steering wheel before breaking into loud, uninhibited sobs. I’m not sure how long I cry for, but one thing’s for certain, I’m not feeling numb any more. Oliver. My husband’s child, his face a newer, fresher, unspoilt version of Adrian’s. There is no mistaking this child’s dark, soulful eyes, the slight upward tilt of his nose, the full, perfectly shaped mouth. And the hair, the child has Adrian’s thick, near-black hair. It even sticks up at the crown.
The car park is getting busier now, and I’m aware of one or two people glancing in my direction. I must have been making more noise than I realised. I pull down the sun visor and check my face in the mirror. Blotchy skin, red, shiny nose, wet eyelashes and eyelids already swollen beyond recognition. As I examine my reflection, I feel the tears rising again. My face starts to crumple and my eyes fill once more. I manage to find a tissue at the bottom of my bag, and as I hold it over my face for a moment, I try to calm myself again. I remember reading something about how in some cultures, it’s normal for widows and bereaved mothers to wail and rend their clothes; that’s what I feel like doing right now, wailing, tearing at my clothes. How could Adrian have a child, when I – we – have lost our babies? I put my head back down on the steering wheel as more sobs overtake me. Slowly, I become aware of a tapping on the window. A wide-faced man with a beard and a purple drinker’s nose is leaning down and looking through the glass at me with concern. ‘Are you all right, love?’
I wipe my face again. ‘Yes,’ I say without looking at him. ‘Yes, thank you. I’ll be fine in a minute.’
‘I say,’ he says, louder this time. ‘Are you all right in there? Do you need any help?’
Oh God, I’m going to have to face him. Taking a deep breath, I press the button to lower the electric window a couple of inches. ‘Sorry, I’ve had some bad news, that’s all. I’ll be all right – thanks for asking.’
‘Are you sure you don’t need—’ But I wind the window up again and start the engine before he can finish.
I’m not even really aware of the drive back, and as I turn into our road it crosses my mind that I may have inadvertently driven through a red light. There’s no way I’ll be able to concentrate enough to back the car into the garage, so I leave it parked outside the house. How I’ve managed to drive home without hitting anything, I don’t know. Diane next door is in her garden putting bottles into the recycling. She glances in my direction and then quickly turns away and for once, I’m glad. I don’t want anyone seeing my red, puffy face and swollen, pig eyes. My hand is trembling so much that it takes me a few moments to get the key into the lock, but when the front door swings open and the familiar smell and warmth of my home rises up to greet me, I feel momentarily comforted, although the feeling is as fleeting as a baby’s breath.
I go straight up to the study with the intention of going through Adrian’s things again. There must be some other evidence of his connection to this child – his child – apart from a deleted invoice, but as soon as I’m standing in the room, I know there’s no point – I’ve been through everything several times already. My mind is in turmoil, the thoughts crashing against each other. Adrian, having an affair; it doesn’t make sense. I remember that old song my dad used to play all the time after my mum died – Dusty Springfield singing, ‘I Just Don’t Know What To Do With Myself’. That’s exactly how I feel. I start to pace the room, but pain shoots up and down my back and leg and I’m forced to sit. I shove things around on the desk roughly, then I deliberately knock a pile of papers off the edge before realising that they’re my own lecture notes. Shit! What a moron. As I gather up the notes I feel hot rage bubbling up inside me. It’s made much worse by the fact that Adrian isn’t here, so I can’t even vent my anger. There isn’t much of his stuff left in here, but there’s the little pot with his pens in, so I sweep that onto the floor, then I pick up the green reading lamp he was so fond of and, with as much vigour as I can muster, I hurl it at the wall. The shade smashes with a satisfyingly loud crack and I watch as the shards of green glass spray out and fall onto the rug, then I stand again, walk calmly out of the room and close the door behind me.
After drinking the last of the whisky, I feel a little better. I go back up to the study. There are so many questions to answer. He was obviously on his way to or from Castledene when he had the crash, but he can’t still have been seeing the mother regularly, because I almost always knew where he was – with the obvious exception of the day of the accident. The conferences were only every three or four months, so not often enough to provide cover for a full-on affair. And I’d know if he was supporting the child, because I’ve been dealing with the household finances again for more than a year now. I’d have noticed any odd payments from the joint account. I take down the black folder from the shelf and go through the statements from his personal account, transaction by transaction – he keeps paper statements for a year or so – but there’s nothing. I couldn’t be wrong about the child, could I? No; I’d be deluding myself if I tried to pretend that the likeness was a coincidence. I sigh as I make my way slowly downstairs. We’ve been toge
ther almost ten years; all those years with a man I thought was the other half of me, a man who loved me, even during the darkest moments when I was unable to love him back. A man who kept me afloat while almost drowning in his own grief, who held me as we both sobbed, raw and needy in the chill of early morning. Who, when we slowly began to live again, whispered, we are each other, as we made love.
And now it seems I didn’t really know him at all.
It’s almost five o’clock. Sod it. It’s still early, but today has been about as shitty as they come. I take a bottle of Shiraz from the wine rack, selecting it because it’s the first one I spot with a screw top and now I’ve decided to have a drink, I want it immediately. I take out one of the large goblets – they were a wedding present, and we used to call them the VBD – very bad day – glasses. I slosh in a generous amount of the ruby-coloured wine and, feeling consciously reckless, I take two good gulps. I don’t have the medication to worry about any more, so I fully intend to get drunk.
I spend the next hour sitting at the kitchen table, chain-smoking, knocking back the strong, spicy wine and crying. I must have cried almost as much in these last few hours as I’ve done in the last few weeks; maybe it’ll do me some good. My eyes are starting to feel sore, though, and I can feel myself becoming dehydrated. I take a pint glass out of the cupboard and fill it with tap water, but it sits undisturbed on the table while I take another bottle from the rack.
Half an hour later, as I’m pouring yet another drink, I remember I have a card somewhere with the number for Jan, the community psychiatric nurse I used to see after I left the unit. I find it in the kitchen drawer eventually and, finger swaying as I try to focus on the number – I’m so pissed now that my vision is blurred – I press the buttons on the keypad. It’s late, but maybe Jan will be on duty and answer her mobile. It goes to voicemail. I do my best to sound sober, but I can hear the slur in my voice as I try to explain. ‘I know I’ve had a drink, Jan, but I’ve got to talk to someone. You said I could call you if I needed more support, right? Well, I really fucking need support now. Did you know that my husband has a child? He’s called Oliver.’ I pause as another sob comes, and by the time I’ve composed myself by lighting another cigarette and drawing on it deeply, the beep has gone. ‘Fuck,’ I mutter, and press the redial button. ‘S’me again. And you know what? I worked it out. He must have been shagging her while I was ill. Probably while I was still in hospital. How could he do that, Jan?’ I start to cry again. ‘Why should she, that woman, whoever she is, why should she have his baby and I can’t? It’s not fair. Not fucking fair.’ The beep goes again and I’m not sure how much I managed to say before it did, but Jan will call back anyway.
The Flight of Cornelia Blackwood Page 7