by Fiona Gibson
TWENTY-ONE
As Lou’s train pulls away, Spike takes his mobile from his pocket and grips it tightly as if it were a life-support device. He pauses before making the call. Who was that man sitting next to Hannah – some posh oik, by the look of him – who’d leapt up and lifted Lou’s case up onto the luggage rack? There was champagne too, by the looks of it. Spike saw Lou smile her thanks, then start talking to him, all animated, while he stood there like a spare school dinner.
Lou looked pretty today, Spike reflects, with her striking auburn hair bouncing around her impish little face. She’d put on slim-fitting jeans and a soft green sweater he’d never seen before. But it wasn’t her clothes, he realises now as he makes his way towards the station exit. It was her body language that seemed different. Despite Spike’s plans for the rest of the day, he feels a sharp stab of annoyance. Why was she so pleased to be getting away from him? And why couldn’t she be more like this at home – pink-cheeked and buoyant and looking glad to be alive, instead of scowling in that marshmallow dressing gown and forcing him to do his CV? If a jury of his peers were presented with the cold, hard facts about his affair with Astrid, would anyone really blame him?
‘Sod it,’ he mutters, leaving the station and dialling Astrid’s number. It’s only a fifteen-minute walk from York station to her house. Rather cruelly, the quickest route takes him past Sound Shack where, as if to maximise his pain, Rick has placed Spike’s guitar on a stand in the middle of the window. Spike pauses, taking in the blonde wood curves, and the fretboard worn by his very own fingers. A price tag dangles from one of the tuning pegs: £425. £425? Is he taking the piss? Quickly, Spike turns and marches onwards, fury bubbling like lava in his veins. He’s always considered Rick a friend, and has known him virtually all the seven years he’s lived here. He’s obviously not a real friend, though, ripping him off like that. Spike has experienced that a lot over the years – people who want to be his mate, just because of who he is. At least what he has with Astrid is real, he thinks, trying her home phone for the third time, then her mobile (where the hell is she? Isn’t she busily preparing for his arrival, having a bath, delipidating or whatever it’s called when women shave their legs, and smoothing lotion all over her body?). Her airbrushed bum pops into his mind and he feels a shiver of desire. She doesn’t care about ‘My Beauty’, or any horse telly songs for that matter – she’s far too young to remember Follyfoot. Nearing her street now, he tries her mobile again. Still nothing. She’s teasing me, he decides, his heart filling with hope as he turns the corner and her house comes into view. Spike raps sharply on her front door. Nothing. He tries again, then steps back onto the pavement and scans the windows. No one there.
Deciding to adjourn to the olde worlde pub in the next street, he nurses a couple of watery pints before nipping outside and calling her again. Miraculously, she picks up.
‘Hey, you,’ she says, her voice tinged with amusement. ‘You’ve called me, like, five times! Is everything okay?’
‘Er, yeah!’ He pauses and frowns. ‘I just … well, I’ve just seen Lou off and thought, if you’re not doing anything … you do remember, don’t you, that I’m a free man this weekend? Like, all weekend, because Lou’s gone to Glasgow?’
‘Yeah, ’course I do. I just got in actually.’
‘Where have you been?’ he bleats, starting to walk towards her house at a determined pace.
‘The library.’
‘The library?’ Fantastic. He’s sold his guitar so the two of them could have heaps of uninterrupted time together, and she’s been at the library?
‘Yeah, the library, Spike. You know – that building with lots of books in it. Why shouldn’t I go to the library?’
‘Oh, no reason.’
‘You sound out of breath. Are you okay?’
‘Yeah, I’m just walking.’
‘Sounds more like a brisk canter, Spike. God, maybe you should stop smoking …’
‘Yeah, anyway,’ he cuts in, ‘did you get some good books?’ Then, realising how peevish that sounds, he adds, ‘Because I don’t think you’ll be doing much reading this weekend.’
‘Oh. Haha. No, well … I suppose reading can wait. So what time d’you think you’ll be over?’
‘Er …’ He pauses, blinking at her freshly painted front door. ‘Well, I’m sort of here now.’
‘What, here? At my house?’
‘Er, yeah,’ he mutters.
She sighs then, a proper, exasperated sigh. ‘Shall we finish this phone conversation and talk face to face?’
‘That’d be good,’ Spike says with a feeble laugh. Astrid is still clutching her mobile as she opens the door.
‘Hi,’ she says lightly.
‘Hi, babe.’ He steps in, kissing her cheek.
‘So I’m assuming Lou got off okay,’ she says.
‘Yeah.’ He looks at her, and the anticipation that’s been building up all week ebbs away like water into sand. Something about Astrid’s mouth set in a tight line tells Spike that the weekend isn’t going to pan out as he’d planned, and for a fleeting moment he pictures Lou, with that round-faced little tosser on the train, laughing and guzzling champagne.
TWENTY-TWO
By the time Sadie’s train reaches Newcastle, Barney is exhausted as he places his writhing children into their buggy in the living room. It’s 3.30 pm – milk time if he were to stick to the rigid routine which seems to dominate their lives these days, although right now his sons seem keener on exercising their tiny lungs than feeding. How can babies make so much noise? It seems completely out of proportion to their size – high-pitched, urgent, desperate. He’s tried to feed them, but they lurched away from the bottles as if he was offering them Jeyes Fluid. So what do they want? Why can’t they communicate more clearly, and say, ‘Sorry, Dad, but I’m not really in the mood for a bottle right now. What I’d really like is a walk in the park – to be out of this dingy little house?’
Anyway, what would happen if Barney ignored the routine and went off piste, treating them to, say, a bag of chips at 4 pm? Would he be arrested? Would Little Hissingham be consumed by floods, resulting in mass deaths? ‘It says here that it’s really important to establish a routine,’ Sadie explained several months ago, waving one of those thick, glossy baby manuals at him, written by a smug woman emitting of-a-certain-age glamour, who’d clearly never wiped poo off a baby’s lower back in her entire life. So many of Sadie’s sentences start with ‘it says here’. It says here that home-made baby food is better nutritionally. It says here that we used to have fun …
Sex too, if Barney remembers rightly. They used to have that pretty regularly. That one time, a few weeks ago now, was the first in living memory and, frankly, only served to remind him of what he had been missing. Before that, he’d almost forgotten that it was something adults did. Then that night happened – so tender and lovely it had brought tears to his eyes – making Barney foolishly think that intimacy might be back on the agenda. He now realises it was a flukey one-off, and probably only came about because Sadie was delighted to be getting the hell out of Little Hissingham for two days. Since then, whenever he’s tried to touch her in bed, she’s gone rigid with tension as if he might be about to pelt her with ice cubes.
Perhaps it’s moving here, to this bleak little dot on the map, which has pushed them apart. To Barney’s prickling shame, it was his idea in the first place. As he manoeuvres the buggy outside, he remembers wanting to protect his pregnant wife and children from the noise and pollution and people shouting outside their Stoke Newington flat. And Little Hissingham was affordable – just – and within commuting distance of London and surrounded by fields. Fields he’s since discovered aren’t much use as there’s no way of knowing which ones might contain a bull.
‘Aw, lovely boys you’ve got there.’ A middle-aged lady pauses to admire his sons as Barney reaches the park gates.
‘Thanks,’ Barney says as she falls into step with him.
‘Aren’t
you a good dad, bringing them out? Your wife’s a very lucky lady.’
‘Er, I don’t think so,’ he blusters, ‘I just do it, you know …’
As she turns off the path, Barney watches her growing smaller, feeling guilty now for thinking bad thoughts about routines and baby books. Sadie isn’t lucky, he wants to yell after the woman; he is, for having the good fortune to have met such a clever, remarkable, sexy woman. They’re going through a blip, that’s all; isn’t that how those child-rearing experts put it? It’s common for new parents to feel estranged from each other. A little distant and cold, and lacking the intimacy of their pre-parenthood life …
It’s drizzling now, settling on Barney’s face like wet breath, but at least the boys seem less fraught. Glancing up at the sky, which has turned a moody, gunmetal grey, Barney decides to make a pit stop at the park café. That’ll fill half an hour. Then, in another fifty-seven hours and thirty-two minutes, Sadie will be home and everything will be normal again.
‘Hi, what can I get for you?’ asks the perky young girl at the counter. She has a slight accent – Polish, perhaps – and a short, impish haircut. Her fringe is secured to one side with a butterfly clasp.
‘Er …’ Barney scans the menu on the chalkboard on the wall behind her.
There’s no beer on offer, unfortunately, but the thought of coffee, and possibly something sweet and baked, is preferable to the nappy fug of home. ‘An Americano please,’ Barney says, ‘and one of those little currant things.’
‘Sure.’ She flashes him a white-toothed smile. ‘Cute babies,’ she says handing him his coffee and pastry.
‘Thanks,’ he smiles proudly.
‘They obviously enjoy being out with their dad.’ He glances down to see both boys gazing up at the girl in wonder, transfixed her by her smiling, open face. Perhaps that’s what they’ve been missing today: Sadie’s feminine presence. Can he blame them for regarding a bearded male with dastardly bottles of formula as a poor substitute? He’s frozen Sadie’s precious breast milk in case of an emergency, a sort of ‘keeping the best till last’ approach.
‘Yeah,’ he says, grinning. ‘I hope so anyway. They weren’t happy a minute ago, though.’
‘Look like you, don’t they?’ Barney meets the girl’s unwavering gaze, wondering with mild alarm if she’s flirting with him. No, surely not. He’s thirty-six, a clapped-out dad in knackered jeans and a faded Kings of Leon T-shirt, and he hasn’t even combed his hair today. ‘Think so?’ he asks.
‘Oh yeah. Same eyes, same face shape around here …’ She touches her cheek.
Barney looks back down at his children. Actually, he can’t see any resemblance whatsoever; with their dark hair and creamy complexions, they’re miniature Sadies. He’s about to tell the girl this, then hesitates. With a small jolt, he realises he’s avoiding mentioning his wife’s name, or even the fact that his children have a mother. ‘Well, bad luck for them,’ he chortles awkwardly, fishing out coins and placing them on the counter.
The girl laughs. ‘I wouldn’t say that. Anyway, nice to meet you, um …’
‘Barney.’
‘I’m Magda.’ Another big smile. God, she’s commented on his eyes and now she’s introducing herself. He feels his eyebrows shoot up cartoonishly.
‘Well, thanks, Magda.’ He picks up his tray.
‘I’ll take that for you. You’ve got your hands full with the buggy. Where would you like to sit?’
‘Oh, anywhere,’ he murmurs, scanning the numerous empty tables. As he pushes the buggy towards the window, he wishes there were other customers in the café. Then he’d feel less exposed and self-conscious.
‘Here you go.’ Placing his tray on the table, Magda turns and heads back to the counter. Of course, it wasn’t really him she was flirting with, Barney realises now; it was universal-dad-of-cute-babies, like that Athena poster guy clutching the child to his bare chest. The very idea of comparing himself to a male model, shot in black and white, almost makes Barney laugh out loud. Lately, he’s wondered if the real crux of the matter is that his wife no longer fancies him.
Vaguely aware of Magda throwing him the odd glance, he recalls how he first glimpsed Sadie five years ago at a party in an impossibly smart Covent Garden flat. Barney knew Daniel, the host, from drama school, and Sadie was a friend of Daniel’s girlfriend. As a jobbing actor, Barney had led a haphazard existence, trying not to notice that his resting periods were becoming longer, punctuated during one bleak year by an appearance as an armed robber on Crimewatch. It had become clear that he had to come up with a viable alternative. Two significant things happened at Daniel’s party: he’d got chatting to the director of a charity who asked him to stop by for a ‘chat’ – nothing as formal as an interview – the following week. And he’d met Sadie Vella, a stunning brunette with melty brown eyes and curves to make any grown man collapse in a heap. A week later, Barney had a job and, more significantly, was pretty certain he’d met the love of his life. A year later, they married at Wood Green registry office in a flurry of confetti and kooky speeches from their gang of excitable and by now mutual friends.
The twins had felt like a gift, the icing on the cake. They are a gift, Barney thinks now, seeing Magda tip her head to one side and smile indulgently at his sleeping children (has he contravened The Schedule by allowing them to doze off?). But maybe it’s too much for Sadie, looking after them full time, especially out here in the middle of nowhere. It’s obvious now that they should have stayed in north London, near their friends, in a city with a billion things to do. It wouldn’t matter that the tiny local playground has been vandalised or that there were takeaway cartons strewn on the ground. A bit of graffiti and litter never hurt anybody.
‘So,’ Magda says, coming over to wipe the table next to his, ‘what are you up to for the rest of the day?’
‘Er …’ Barney’s mouth is crammed with currants and he quickly gulps them down. ‘Just going with the flow I guess.’ Don’t read anything into this. Magda’s only making conversation because you’re the only customer in here on a drizzly Friday.
She nods, rearranging the daffodils in the small blue vase on the adjacent table. Although he tries not to look, he can’t help but notice her darting gracefully between the other tables in a cute denim mini skirt over leggings, and a spotty top that hugs her slight, boyish frame. He flinches as his mobile rings, as if Sadie might have somehow spied him glancing at Magda from her Glasgow-bound train.
‘Hey, mate! How’s it going? Sadie off on that hen weekend?’
It’s Pete, Barney’s best mate from secondary school, a chick-magnet who, at thirty-six, has so far managed to breeze through life without acquiring any responsibilities beyond a small mortgage on his airy Clerkenwell flat. ‘Yeah, left this morning,’ Barney replies, realising he’s carefully omitted the word ‘she’. ‘Pretty excited, yeah,’ he goes on. ‘So, everything OK?’
‘Yep,’ Pete says. ‘Hope you’re enjoying your day off, though I guess it’s not exactly a holiday being in charge of those two monkeys …’
‘Oh, it’s been fine,’ Barney says jovially.
‘Good man. Anyway, listen, I’m finishing up early today so I thought I’d drive out to see you, have a couple of pints in your village pub, the what-ever-it-is …’
‘The Black Swan.’
‘Yeah. Nice place. So what d’you think?’
‘I, er …’
‘I know you’ve got the kids,’ Pete adds, ‘but it’s warm and sunny and they’d be okay outside in the beer garden, wouldn’t they?’ Barney looks out again, willing the drizzle to stop and the moody grey sky to turn blue. ‘I mean, no one would call social services for that, would they?’ Pete chuckles.
‘Nah,’ Barney laughs, ‘I reckon we’d be fine. Weather’s a bit dismal here but it might perk up. And it’ll be great to see you. You can crash on the sofa if you like.’
‘Great. Just feel like getting out of London, to be honest.’
Barney finishes the call a
nd, balancing his cup on his plate with one hand, and steering the buggy with the other, he makes his way back to the counter.
‘Bye, Magda,’ he says with a big smile, buoyed by the prospect of Pete’s visit, even more so now as the rain has stopped, and weak sunlight is filtering through the clouds.
‘Bye, Barney. See you again soon, I hope.’
‘Er, yeah. Me too.’ As he barges towards the exit, clumsily knocking against a large plant, he tries to arrange his flushed features into a coping-dad face. Even though absolutely nothing has happened, he decides not to mention any of this to Pete.
TWENTY-THREE
Ladies and gentlemen, we apologise for this delay to our 12.30 service from King’s Cross to Glasgow Central, caused by signalling problems in the Newcastle area. We hope to be moving again shortly and will keep you informed of further developments. Again, we are sorry for any inconvenience this delay may have caused …
Lou doesn’t feel that any apology is necessary. She’s relishing the banter with Hannah, Sadie and Felix, and she’s grateful to be away from Let’s Bounce and Spike, beached on the sofa, clutching the remote control to his chest. ‘So you and your boyfriend have been together since college?’ Felix asks. His hearty guffaws and startlingly direct questions are refreshing, Lou decides as he tops up her cup.
‘Yep, sixteen years now,’ she replies. ‘I think that qualifies for some kind of long-service award, don’t you?’
‘He came along when she was a little stripling of nineteen and spoiled her fun,’ Hannah chuckles.
Although Hannah is joking, Lou has always suspected she doesn’t entirely approve of Spike. ‘He must have something, though,’ Felix insists. ‘Something that’s kept you together all this time.’
Lou rolls her eyes and grins. ‘Yeah, I suppose he must. Um, let me think …’
Sadie and Hannah burst out laughing. ‘He looked like a nice guy, dutifully standing there and seeing you off,’ Felix offers.