The Great Escape

by Fiona Gibson

  ‘Yeah?’ Harry says. ‘What’s she doing up there?’

  ‘She’s on a hen weekend with her friends.’

  ‘Right, so it’s going to be a quiet, low-key kind of thing,’ Rod chuckles.

  Spike grimaces. ‘Well, it’s not meant to be a big, wild weekend …’

  Charlie and the band are all smirking knowingly, and Spike feels irritation bubbling up once again. ‘But that’s not what it sounded like when I spoke to her earlier,’ he adds, unable to stop himself. ‘There was some guy there, some posh creep who’d tried to pick her up on the train, plied her with drink, and he was tagging along for the night, sounded like they were all out of their skulls, to be honest …’ A rich burp pops up, reeking of sausage. Charlie is frowning at him as if he has something strange and horrifying growing out of his nose.

  ‘Well, it’s a hen party,’ Harry offers with a shrug. ‘What else are they going to do? Sit around having tea and cakes?’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s not meant to be a wild weekend, remember,’ Rod adds with a guffaw.

  ‘You don’t think …’ Charlie frowns, meeting Spike’s gaze. ‘Lou wouldn’t get up to anything, would she? Not your Lou. She’s such a great girl.’

  ‘Of course she wouldn’t,’ Spike exclaims. ‘I just …’ He shrugs, wishing he had some chewing gum to take away the bad taste in his mouth.

  ‘So what are you worried about?’ Charlie wants to know.

  ‘Nothing.’ Spike shakes his head firmly and swigs from his bottle.

  ‘He’s just jealous,’ Rod guffaws. ‘Jealous of his girlfriend letting her hair down while he’s stuck with us sorry lot.’

  Spike forces out a dry laugh and tries to relax.

  ‘Well, mate,’ Harry-the-roadie says with a smirk, ‘you could come up to Glasgow with us, check out what she’s up to. We’ve got room in the van.’

  ‘I might just be tempted,’ Spike chuckles.

  ‘Yeah, Lou would love that,’ adds Charlie. ‘You showing up out of the blue, ruining her fun.’

  As they banter on, Spike tunes out. He no longer wants to be standing here, pretending he’s having a great Friday night out. What he really wants to do is to beam himself into that Glasgow bar and punch Felix in the face.

  He says his goodbyes then, deciding that he needs to go home, sober up and wrestle his tangled thoughts into order. ‘Well, it’s been great meeting you all,’ he says stiffly, placing his empty bottle on a cluttered table, ‘but I think I’m going to crash.’

  After a small flurry of backslaps and you-take-care-mates, Spike starts to head for the exit. ‘Like we said, Spike,’ Harry calls after him, ‘we’ve got room in the ambulance if you change your mind …’

  ‘Ambulance?’ Spike echoes. Although he feels vaguely unwell, he can’t imagine that a hospital visit is necessary.

  ‘Our tour bus,’ Rod explains with a grin. ‘Hardly luxury but it gets us about.’

  ‘We’re leaving around ten,’ Harry adds.

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Spike calls back.

  ‘Hey, Spike!’ Charlie yells. ‘If you do go, I suggest you wear two socks instead of just the one, yeah? It can get pretty chilly up in Glasgow.’

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Sadie has drunk two more bespoke cocktails and feels just fine – better than fine, in fact. The last time she socialised was at a Little Hissingham coffee morning. She’s now perched on a stool with her best friends, surrounded by beautiful people – everyone looks beautiful to Sadie tonight. She wants to call Barney, to tell him she loves him and the babies so much, and to say sorry for going on about schedules like some tedious headmistress at a strict boarding school.

  And now, perhaps fuelled by Felix’s caramel cocktail, she’s no longer an addled mother but dancing with her friends, feeling slightly off kilter at first because she hasn’t danced in a very long time. It’s like sex, she thinks: you stop doing those lovely things you used to take for granted, then you try it once and it’s okay, it’s better than okay, and you realise what you’ve been missing. Sadie’s thoughts are racing, any trace of self-consciousness gone. She’s dancing, unaware of the breast pad which has worked its way up to the neckline of her dress and is about to make a bid for freedom.

  When the tall, dark-haired man in glasses asks her to dance, she smiles and turns towards him, recognising him from the last bar. It’s so friendly here. It’s where she belongs. When the breast pad pops out of her dress, she just laughs, kicks it aside and keeps dancing …

  Sadie Vella is so happy she could cry. Anything she does right now is just fine, because she loves Hannah and Lou and Barney and the boys, and right at this moment, life is pretty damn perfect.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Ryan’s taxi pulls up outside Petra’s ground floor flat. The living room curtains are drawn at the bay window, with soft light behind, and even from the street her place has an aura of stillness and calm. Ryan pays the driver, clears his throat and absent-mindedly smoothes down his hair as if about to embark on a blind date. Then he knocks quietly on Petra’s front door and waits.

  ‘Hi,’ she says with a smile, stepping back to welcome him in.

  ‘Hi.’ He smiles awkwardly. ‘I hope you don’t mind …’

  ‘Of course I don’t. Come in, I’ll get you a drink. What would you like? Beer? Glass of wine?’

  Ryan shakes his head as he follows her to the kitchen. ‘I’d just like a coffee if that’s okay.’

  Petra smiles, her raised eyebrows registering surprise as she scoops coffee into the cafetière. ‘Are you okay, Ryan? Is something going on?’

  ‘Um … sort of.’ He perches on the edge of her kitchen table, watching as she takes a mug from the cupboard. Petra looks different tonight; her hair is softer, more natural, her pale, earnest face free of make-up. Instead of her customary crisp white shirt – Ryan always wonders how she manages not to cut her neck on those collars – she’s wearing a black long-sleeved top and stretchy black trouser things which Ryan assumes are for yoga. It’s the sleepy, night-time Petra whom he hasn’t seen for a very long time.

  She turns and hands him the mug of coffee. ‘Shall we go through?’

  ‘Yes, okay.’ He follows her into the living room and they sit a little awkwardly on her low oatmeal-coloured sofa.

  ‘So?’ She fixes her clear grey eyes on him.

  ‘Well, I er …’ he starts.

  ‘Dad?’ comes Daisy’s voice from the bedroom she shares with Josh. ‘Daddy, is that you?’

  ‘Yes, Daddy’s here,’ Petra calls out softly, ‘but it’s after midnight, darling. Go back to sleep …’

  There’s a thump of feet and the squeak of a door, followed by the sound of Daisy padding towards them.

  ‘Dad!’ she exclaims, appearing in the living room doorway. ‘Why are you here at night?’

  ‘Er, I’ve just come to see Mum.’ He smiles broadly, kissing the top of his daughter’s head as she wraps her arms around him.

  ‘Have you brought my story?’

  ‘No, no. … but I’ll find it. I promise. Or you can help me look for it when you’re home on Sunday.’

  She pulls back, her smile wilting. ‘Why did you come then?’

  ‘Daisy.’ Petra stands up and places a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. ‘Sometimes me and Daddy just need to talk.’

  ‘What about?’ She frowns and bites her lip.

  ‘Just …’ Her mother shrugs. ‘Just things, sweetheart. Things we don’t really get the chance to talk about at any other time.’

  ‘Were you talking about me?’

  ‘We weren’t talking about anything yet,’ Ryan says with a chuckle. ‘I’ve literally been here about five minutes.’

  Daisy throws him, then her mother, a quizzical look. ‘Can I have a hot chocolate?’

  ‘No,’ Petra says with a laugh. ‘Bed, Daisy. Come on now, we’ve got a lot to fit in tomorrow.’ Reluctantly, Daisy turns and heads for her room.

  Petra looks expectantly at Ryan. He sips his coffee, w
hich is lukewarm now, and swallows hard. He doesn’t want to tell her; the Marlboro packet no longer seems like the massive deal it had a few hours ago. Hadn’t he sneaked a few ciggies behind the sports block when he was Josh’s age? ‘Petra,’ he murmurs, ‘Josh has been smoking.’

  She is perfectly still, clear-eyed, lips poised. ‘Has he? Are you sure?’

  Ryan nods. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘How d’you know? Have you smelt it or something?’

  ‘No, I just stumbled on an email of Hannah’s where she was telling a friend …’

  Petra frowns. ‘She was telling a friend, but hadn’t told you?’

  Ryan exhales. This was what he’s been thinking too, turning it over and over in his mind. It’s what bothers him most about the whole thing. ‘Maybe she felt she shouldn’t interfere,’ he suggests, ‘or she didn’t want to get Josh into trouble.’

  ‘But she caught him smoking! And didn’t even say …’

  ‘She didn’t catch him exactly,’ Ryan says quickly. ‘She found a packet with one in it in his jeans pocket.’

  ‘But would her loyalties be with Josh rather than you? I wouldn’t have thought so …’

  Ryan tenses at the word ‘loyalties’. What about his loyalty to Hannah who’ll be his wife in just two weeks’ time? He shouldn’t be here at Petra’s at twelve-thirty at night. Yet who else can he talk to about Josh? ‘I don’t know what’s going on with Hannah,’ he says carefully. ‘It’s as if there’s this whole other thing going on that I know nothing about.’

  ‘What kind of thing, Ryan?’ Petra’s eyes are filled with concern.

  He shakes his head. ‘I’m not sure. I just …’

  ‘I thought you must be worried about something,’ she adds gently, placing a delicate hand on his knee, ‘if you’ve been looking through her emails.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to pry,’ Ryan insists. ‘I was only looking for Daisy’s …’ He stops himself.

  ‘Ryan …’ Petra’s hand is still there, small and warm on his knee. ‘No one just stumbles on other people’s mails. We read them because we’re looking for something, and we only do that when we think something’s wrong.’

  Ryan blinks at her. Calm, wise, beautiful Petra with her sharp cheekbones and almond-shaped grey eyes. ‘You’re right,’ he murmurs. ‘You’re absolutely right.’

  ‘So …’ Her voice is soft, her house so calm and still he can feel his heart thudding. ‘Is there something …?’

  He looks at her, his ex-wife who decided she no longer loved him three years ago, and realises, with a crushing certainty, that it’s happening to him again. ‘Petra,’ he says, ‘we’ve planned this wedding and it’s all going ahead, but I know, when we say those vows, it’s going to be all wrong …’

  ‘Why?’ she asks gently.

  ‘Because Hannah doesn’t want to marry me,’ he says.

  FORTY

  Johnny Lynch is sitting on his small sage-green sofa with his laptop open beside him. Lou has been easy to find and, not for the first time in his life, Johnny gives a brief, silent thanks to Saint Google. He studies her home page:

  Lou Costello Jewellery Designs

  Home

  Gallery

  Contact artist

  Contact artist. Of course he can’t. After all this time, having abruptly cut ties, he can’t just lurch back into her life. Anyway, if that really had been her, Sadie and Hannah in that pretentious-looking basement bar – which is highly unlikely, Johnny decides – then Lou will hardly be picking up her emails right now.

  Instead, he browses Lou’s gallery pictures as he sips a beer. Her jewellery is quite breathtaking, and Johnny isn’t even a jewellery person. Each piece is incredibly delicate, like a precious thing found on a beach. Bracelets resemble shards of shell and coral, and a pearl-encrusted brooch looks as if it might have been plucked from the seabed. For one mad moment, Johnny considers posing as a buyer and emailing to ask for more details. As Lou hasn’t put any prices on the site, it would be perfectly feasible. But what would be the point? It would just be weird, and Johnny has lived alone for long enough – nine years now – to be aware that weirdness can creep up on you without you noticing. If he hadn’t had Cal to think about, Johnny is pretty confident that he’d have descended into Weirdness Central by now.

  He sits back, sipping his beer, thinking about Cal nagging him to go in and speak to those girls. How spineless is he, not even having the courage to do that? What kind of message is he sending his son? Cal wouldn’t have held back. He’s the kind of boy who’ll march into any situation – first evening at scouts, a birthday party where he barely knows a soul – and within minutes everyone knows what Cal Lynch is all about.

  Johnny clicks on ‘Contact’.

  Lou Costello, Flat 2, 67 Winston Street, York YO16 7AZ.

  Phone: 01906 334774

  Email: enquiries@loucostellojewellery.com

  It’s all there, laid out on his screen. A landline, not a mobile. Well, that’s better than nothing. He could phone right now even though, at 12.37 am, it’s far too late to be calling anyone. If she doesn’t answer, there might at least be a mobile number on the answerphone message. And if she does pick up, he’ll know it wasn’t her in that bar.

  Picking up the handset, Johnny starts to tap out her number. At the penultimate digit, he pauses, his finger hovering over the button. A few millimetres, one tiny movement of his index finger – that’s how close he is from speaking to Lou Costello again. He jabs at the 4, catching his breath as it rings and the answerphone kicks in. Hi, can’t get to the phone right now, please leave a message after the beep. Thanks. Bye!

  Brisk, perky, just like the Lou he remembers. At the sound of her voice, Johnny is left momentarily speechless. He opens his mouth. There are a few seconds of crackling, then the beep. ‘Er, hi Lou, it’s me! Erm … Johnny. D’you remember? From upstairs at your old Glasgow flat? God, I know it’s been years. Look, I know it’s horribly late and you’ll probably think this is completely bizarre …’ He’s sweating now, and nearly loses his grip on the handset. ‘Um, I was out tonight and I noticed these people in this little cocktail place in Bath Street, can’t remember what it’s called, and I thought I saw you! Sitting at a table by the window with two girls who looked just like Hannah and Sadie, and you were there too, at least someone who looked exactly like you, with your boyfriend …’ He stops abruptly. This is coming out all wrong. Fuck, he sounds completely berserk, like some mad stalker, prone to peering in through windows at bunches of girls having a perfectly nice Friday night out. ‘Er … but of course, if you are in Glasgow, you won’t be picking up this message,’ he adds with a strained chuckle. ‘So anyway, bye!’

  He slams the handset down and sinks back into the sofa. ‘Bloody idiot,’ he mutters out loud. Leaning forward then, and pressing his knuckles so far into his temples that it actually hurts, Johnny decides that the only thing for it is to take himself to bed. He turns off his laptop and tips the rest of his beer down his throat. Then he marches through to his small, orderly bedroom to pull off his clothes, crawl under the duvet and try to convince himself that his deranged call to Lou Costello had never happened.

  FORTY-ONE

  Barney has cocked up big time. His sons are merrily kicking and swiping at the dangling objects on their gigantic activity arch as if it’s the middle of the day and not an ungodly 1.15 am. He’s tried everything to coax them cotwards: singing, rocking, bathing them and feeding them copious amounts of milk. He’s even changed them into fresh sleepsuits in case his initial choice had been uncomfortable or regarded as a style faux pas.

  ‘Are they normally as lively as this?’ asks Pete, regarding the scene with undisguised relief that, for him, this is a one-off and not a regular occurrence.

  ‘No,’ Barney says, trying to keep the agitation out of his voice. ‘Not when Sadie’s here. They’re usually in bed by about nine.’ He stops himself from adding, That’s because Sadie has strict schedules to be adhered to, and this is what happens w
hen you flaunt the rules. There’s no ‘winging it’ with babies, he realises now. When Sadie was pregnant, he’d imagined the two of them continuing to travel, as they had pre-children: trekking through Peru or India, each transporting a baby on their backs. Now, it feels like an almighty feat to strap them into the car and drive them to his parents’ place in Hertfordshire. What had he been thinking, allowing his children that long, luxurious evening nap in the beer garden – so close to bath and bedtime – while he and Pete chatted up two young girls?

  ‘Wonder what their photo shoot will be about tomorrow?’ Pete muses, installed in the comfiest armchair in the room and sipping from his bottle of beer.

  Barney glances at him. With Milo on his lap and the My Little Farm picture book open in front of him, he tries to convince himself that it’s fine to meet up with the girls tomorrow.

  ‘God knows,’ he murmurs, pointing to one of the pictures. ‘Horse,’ he adds, ‘look, Milo, horse. Neeeeiiigh … just don’t embarrass me, all right? I live here, remember, and Magda works in the café in the park.’

  ‘What would I do to embarrass you?’ Pete exclaims, observing Dylan as he crawls across the rug towards his father.

  ‘Cow. Moo. … Oh, I dunno. Flirt madly, try to get off with a twenty-year-old.’

  ‘Twenty’s all right!’ Pete protests. ‘Twenty’s hardly, y’know, jail-bait.’

  Rolling his eyes, Barney turns the page, reaching down to lift Dylan up onto his other knee while keeping Milo firmly clasped on his lap. ‘Look,’ he says brightly with both sons now staring intently at the book. ‘That’s the farmer’s wife. Lady…’

  Dylan stiffens. ‘Mama …’

  ‘Yes, Mama …’

  ‘Mama,’ he cries, more forcefully now, causing his brother to flinch.