by Fiona Gibson
‘Are you absolutely sure?’ Sadie asks Barney that night. They’re in bed, having settled the babies, and she’s resting her head on his chest.
‘Of course I’m sure, honey. You don’t need permission, you know.’
‘But it would mean you taking Friday off work.’
‘It’s not a problem, okay? I’ve racked up loads of extra hours lately.’
Sadie blinks in the dark. ‘But what about feeding? I know we’ve been using the odd bottle, but I’m not sure I want to give up …’
‘Maybe you could express some milk?’ Barney suggests.
‘Yeah.’ She smiles, impressed that he’s even heard of the term. ‘Yes, I could do that.’ She stretches up to kiss him, wondering if there’s any connection between her impending escape and the return of her libido, which burst back onto the scene tonight with such gusto that Barney seemed, initially at least, a little taken aback. Not for long, though. It had happened – and Sadie’s body had responded the way it used to. So everything still works. She’s still capable of enjoying herself with the man she loves. Which means, she thinks, kissing him lightly on the lips, she’s still Sadie Vella underneath.
SIXTEEN
It’s a broody-skied Monday and Spike is absolutely knackered. He’s had quite a morning, having already been round to Astrid’s, ostensibly for a late breakfast – ‘brunch’ she’d called it, laughing so he’d know she was being ironic. He’d enjoyed watching her, every fibre of his being fizzling with anticipation as she made perfect poached eggs on some strange kind of toast with nuts and dried berries nesting inside (Spike isn’t a fan of mysterious shrivelled fruits lurking inside his toast, but pronounced it delicious). He also enjoyed a brief but particularly raunchy encounter with Astrid on her bathroom floor, and after that, legged it back to the flat to pick up the first acoustic guitar he’d ever owned. Now he’s heading to Sound Shack, the tiny music shop sandwiched between a bookmaker’s and a launderette in a beleaguered side street.
‘Hey, Spike,’ Rick drawls from behind the counter. ‘Haven’t seen you around. Been hibernating?’
‘Just had a lot on my plate,’ Spike fibs, aware of being eyed by Rick’s straggly grey dog of no discernible pedigree who’s lounging in a hair-strewn wicker basket. The dog opens its mouth wide in a yawn, exposing black gums, then flops its head back down on its cushion.
‘Yeah? What kind of stuff?’ Rick wants to know.
‘Just this and that.’
‘Any gigs coming up?’
‘Got a few irons in the fire,’ Spike says blithely.
‘So … anything you’re looking for?’ Rick asks.
‘Er, maybe. There might be something …’
‘Yeah?’ Rick says hopefully.
Spike pauses, overcome by a wave of regret as he looks down at the guitar case he’s clutching. His parents had bought it when he was fourteen, despite the fact that they knew less than nothing about music. A couple of albums of terrible church music had been the sum total of their record collection, yet they’d saved up the princely sum of £180 because it had meant so much to their son. ‘Er … I’m thinking of selling his. Thought you might be interested.’ Something catches in Spike’s throat, and he busies himself with removing the guitar from its case.
‘Right,’ Rick says with interest, scratching his small salt-and-pepper beard. ‘Let’s have a look.’ Spike hands him the guitar, and Rick takes what feels like far too long to check it out. Visual inspection complete, he sits on a small wooden chair in the corner of the shop and starts to strum.
Spike sucks in his lips and pretends to admire the instruments on the walls of the shop. It seems wrong, Rick playing his guitar; he became twitchy even when Lou asked him to show her some chords.
‘Yeah,’ Rick murmurs. ‘S’nice, Spike. A good, rounded tone. I could probably give you a hundred and fifty.’
‘You’re joking?’ Spike spins round from the bass he’s been studying. ‘Is that all?’
Rick shrugs, carefully places the guitar back in its case and retrieves his still-smoking cigarette from the ashtray by the till. ‘Tough times, mate. Recession, in case you hadn’t noticed.’
‘Yeah, I know.’ Spike’s stomach feels leaden.
‘I’m telling you, reselling it isn’t going to be easy. I don’t want to be stuck with it, taking up space …’
Spike blows out air and digests the figure. He’s being ripped off, and could probably get twice the amount if he sold it privately through a small ad. But Hannah’s hen weekend is in two weeks’ time, which means Lou has to decide whether or not to go pretty much right away. He needs Lou out of the picture, and giving her money is the only way he can think of to make it happen. ‘Two hundred?’ he suggests.
Rick puckers his bottom lip and grinds out the roll-up. ‘One-sixty. That’s my final. Sorry, mate. It’s all I can do.’ Great. A hundred and sixty quid for a quality guitar that cost more than that thirty-four-bloody-years-ago.
‘Right. Okay.’ Spike tries not to show any emotion as Rick counts out the tatty notes, and slips them into his jeans pocket as if the small, precious wad is no more significant than a shopping list. In reality, though, it’s the passport to an entire, uninterrupted weekend with Astrid. Which means, he reflects, as he leaves the dusty shop, that it’s worth it.
Is it morally wrong to sell something like that, he wonders? Of course not. Things are just things Spike tells himself; it’s life’s experiences that matter, and Spike considers himself a free man, unencumbered by material possessions. So he hasn’t sold out – he’s made a considered investment. And forty-eight hours in bed with Astrid is well worth £160.
Even so, his heart falters as he climbs the stairs to the flat. Suddenly, Spike fears that what he’s doing is actually very wrong, and will result in some kind of terrible karmic retribution. He freezes on the landing, blood draining from his face as he desperately tries to remember if, in his haste to get his hands on some cash, he forgot to lock the door.
No, surely he didn’t. He never does that. Yet the door is a few inches open, and somebody is definitely pacing around inside his flat.
Spike doesn’t feel brave or strong enough to charge in and grapple with whoever is in there. ‘Right, so you really don’t mind,’ comes the voice. Lou’s voice, on the phone. He nearly weeps with relief. Lou, who’s pacing around with the phone, smiles as he walks into the living room. ‘I feel like I’m letting you down,’ she goes on, ‘but at least we’ll see you at the wedding …’
It’s Hannah, Spike realises as Lou chatters on about wedding dresses (‘I’m sure it’s lovely, you’re just nervous, that’s all … no, of course you’re not going to look like a nurse, daft thing, whatever put that idea in your head?’). Hannah, the blonde beauty with a fit, toned body, whom Spike has always suspected doesn’t entirely approve of him. Still gripping the phone, Lou sneezes several times into a tissue. She resumes the chat, punctuating it with the loud, open laughter that seems to burst out of her mouth only when she’s talking to one of her friends. She finishes the call. ‘That was Hannah,’ she says unnecessarily.
‘Right.’
‘I was just telling her I won’t be able to go on the weekend.’ Lou shrugs. ‘She sounded a bit disappointed.’
‘Er … what are you doing home?’ he asks. ‘I thought someone had broken into the flat.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, the door was open.’
‘Was it? I mustn’t have shut it properly. I came home early. This cold’s really come on and Dave was quite sympathetic for once.’ She pauses, studying his face as if detecting something – the tiniest tic, or his hair looking messier than usual – which might alert her to the nature of his morning activities. ‘Where have you been anyway?’ she asks.
‘Just out and about.’ Don’t panic. She asked in a normal voice, not accusingly. ‘I popped into Sound Shack actually,’ he adds with a grin. ‘Spoke to Rick about the acoustic.’
‘What about the acoustic?’ Lou
pauses. ‘Oh, Spike, you’re not seriously thinking of selling it.’
‘Sold it, honey,’ he says grandly.
‘What? You’re joking! It’s your oldest guitar. Your parents bought it for you! What would they think?’
He shrugs. ‘They probably don’t even remember it.’
‘Of course they do! God, you can’t get rid of it …’ She sneezes again, her eyes moist and sore-looking.
‘Well, it’s all done and dusted.’ With a resigned smile, he extracts the wad of notes from his pocket and hands it to her.
‘I don’t need this!’ she exclaims. ‘I feel terrible, like I’m responsible for you doing that …’
‘Hey,’ Spike cuts in, hugging her. ‘You’re not responsible. I did it, because you’ve been working your socks off and I don’t want you to keep going on about it, okay? It’s done. Finito. And the money’s yours.’
Lou pulls back to study his face, then kisses him firmly on the lips. ‘You’re such a darling. Honestly, Spike, I can’t believe you did this for me.’ She smiles up at him, showing the gap between her teeth. Lou’s so cute when she looks at him like that, Spike thinks, and he buries his face in her springy curls, even though they smell slightly of deep-fat fryer. It’s not that he wants to split up with Lou. Theirs is an old-slipper sort of relationship: worn slippers with flattened backs which, although they hardly set your pulse racing, are somehow deeply comforting.
Unlike that guitar, he tells himself firmly, hoping to quell another pang of regret. That’s just … old. Then Spike imagines some cocky little sod swaggering into Sound Shack and buying it – the type who wants a guitar to prop up in his living room as a ‘thing’ – and realises his face has set in an unbecoming scowl.
‘You okay?’ Lou is studying him intently.
‘Er, yeah. Just thinking about my CV actually.’
She raises her brows in amusement. ‘Well, I’m looking forward to seeing it. And, Spike …’ She pauses. ‘I’ll be different when I come back from the weekend, okay? I probably just need a bit of time with Sadie and Han. It’ll be good for me. Help me get back on track. I mean, they’re still doing what they set out to do, aren’t they? Hannah’s doing really well at Catfish, and I know Sadie’s at home with the babies but she wanted that too, she was desperate for kids with Barney, and she’ll probably go back to teaching at some point …’
Spike nods. ‘Yeah. It’ll be good for the three of you to get together.’
‘That’s what’s wrong, Spike,’ she declares. ‘I’ve let this crappy job take over my life and I need to get my priorities right and be focused.’
‘I know what you mean.’
‘And I miss them,’ she adds. ‘I know I’ve got plenty of friends here, but us three – it’s as if we’re somehow … connected.’ Spike nods, picturing the girls’ dowdy yet cosy flat in Garnet Street, all of them bunched around the kitchen table and everyone laughing and knocking back Spanish plonk as he regaled them with tales from the music business.
Right now, Spike feels as vibrant and alive as he did in the old days, as if his world has just opened up with a myriad of possibilities. He has Lou who adores him and is awash with gratitude, and Astrid waiting for him in her chemise. Spike senses his lips curling into a smile as he reflects that life really couldn’t be much better right now.
SEVENTEEN
To: [email protected]; [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Dearest girls,
Can’t believe the three of us are going to be together in one week’s time. I’m so excited I can’t tell you and am counting the sleeps like a little kid. The hotel’s booked – I thought it sounded smart and boutiquey before someone on TripAdvisor said they’d found earwigs in the shower and an old sandwich poking out from under the bed. Oh well! It’s all I could get on the cheap and it does have a swimming pool. Anyway, who cares what it’s like? We’ll hardly be there anyway.
Can’t WAIT to see you. It’s been a funny old week – loads on at work with a new wedding stationery range, which I should be finding easy with my own nuptials thundering towards me … but somehow I’m not. I’ve had to work really late a few nights, and Ryan’s been looking all hurt as if I’m trying to avoid him. Which I’m not. Sometimes, though, I wonder if it’s easier for him and the kids when I’m not around.
I know I’ve never really mentioned any of this. I guess it’s because I’ve been trying to convince myself that it’ll turn out fine somehow. But now I’m scared that it won’t. Living here feels like I have to be on best behaviour all the time. The kids are so rude and surly – Ryan does his best but it’s a real pig-in-the-middle situation for him, and they ARE his flesh and blood. Anyway, they make it pretty clear they don’t want their beloved daddy to get married again. I made the big mistake of going into Josh’s room the other evening (I knocked first) and said, ‘Hi, how you doing,’ that sort of thing. He had some music on and I said, ‘Oh, I really like this band …’ He gave me this disgusted look, like he might vomit right there on the carpet. I backed out of the room and went downstairs and poured myself a huge glass of wine, which I tipped down without even swallowing. It’s a new skill I’ve learned. Remind me to show you in Glasgow!
There’s something else too. I was putting a wash on this morning and I always check the kids’ pockets because they’re usually crammed with sweet wrappers and headphones and sometimes even an iPod or two. And I found a crushed cigarette packet in the back pocket of Josh’s jeans. It had one in it – Marlboro Light. Everyone was out, and I was SO tempted to nip out to the back garden and smoke it (even though I’ve not had a fag for thirteen years and even then, as you both know, I was such a crap, part-time smoker). But I managed not to, and now I can’t decide whether to tell Ryan. If I do, I’m a disgusting snitch and there’ll be no hope of getting along better with Josh. And if I don’t, I’m not fulfilling my role as WIFE TO BE by withholding vital information.
Anyway! Sorry to rant on, just needed to spill it all out and we hardly ever get the chance to talk properly on the phone these days. I probably just need to get away for a couple of days. I need some time with my favourite girls. Our train tickets are booked – I chose the East Coast line so we can all travel together. Sadie, I’ll meet you at King’s Cross, and Lou, you can collect your ticket at York station. We’ll be banging on the window in case you’re having a last-minute snoggy farewell with Spike and forget to jump on.
Oh, and listen – I don’t want the typical matching T-shirts type hen party. No bunny ears or L-plates either, not even ironically. Hope you don’t think I’m being a spoilsport and not getting into the spirit. All I want is for the three of us to be together again like old times.
Hannah checks her watch. It’s 11.30 am – still half an hour before Petra’s due, by which time Ryan and the kids should be back from the swimming pool. After six months here, Hannah still finds herself growing more agitated by the minute as a Petra visit approaches. She checks her hair, her face – even the state of her fingernails – and has already wiped the worktops and mopped the kitchen floor. It’s silly really. Why should she care what Petra thinks of her?
The sharp ping of the doorbell makes her flinch, and Hannah quickly shuts her email and hurries to answer it.
‘Hi, Petra,’ she says at the door. ‘Ryan and the kids are still at the pool but they shouldn’t be too long. Come in …’ It still feels weird, inviting Petra into the house in which she brought up her babies and played her cello and lived with her family for a decade.
Petra, clad in a camel jacket and elegant black trousers – what the magazines would describe as ‘key pieces’ – follows Hannah to the kitchen. ‘I hoped they’d be ready,’ she remarks, glossy dark hair bouncing around her pointy chin. ‘We’ve got a lot to pack in today.’
She talks about them as if they’re a project, Hannah thinks as she fills the kettle. ‘Er, I think they were expecting you at twelve,’ Hannah explains.
Petra frowns.
‘It was definitely eleven-thirty. I wanted to make the most of the day.’
‘What have you got planned?’ Hannah asks, selecting the china Orla Keily mug from the cupboard for Petra and not the one emblazoned DANGER: RADIOACTIVE MATERIAL! CONTAINS PLUTONIUM SUSPENSION, which she’s been carting from flat to flat since college.
‘Well, I thought we could do Miró at the Tate,’ Petra explains, ‘then there’s an open-air mime show at the South Bank I thought we’d check out. Have you heard about it?’
‘Er, I think so,’ Hannah fibs. ‘It sounds great.’
Petra has parked her bony rear on a kitchen chair and smiles her thanks as Hannah hands her her tea. Petra’s nails are manicured; perfect pink ovals like delicate shells. Hannah imagines them glinting under the spotlight as Petra performs Bach’s Cello Concerto number something-or-other at the Festival Hall. Although she’s never seen Petra play live, she’s watched some of her performances on YouTube, having stumbled upon them accidentally after typing ‘Petra Lennox Cellist’ into the search box. She’s also spotted a few lusty comments directed at Petra on there.
‘They should be here pretty soon,’ Hannah says unnecessarily, perching on the chair opposite her.
‘Yep, hope so.’ Petra smiles tightly. Hannah hasn’t spoken to her since earring-gate, two weeks ago now, and the subject of potentially festering lobes hovers uneasily between them. Hannah wonders how Petra would react to news of Josh’s Marlboro packet.
‘Oh, here they are,’ she cries, leaping up at the sound of Ryan and the kids tumbling in.
‘Got these for you, sweetheart … oh, Petra, didn’t expect …’ Ryan stops in the kitchen doorway, smiling inanely and clutching a bunch of sweet peas, which Hannah quickly takes from him as if relieving him of a crying baby.