A lucky man, he thinks. I thought David was a lucky man.
‘Of course I don’t mind. David was a mate.’ Is that the right word? he wonders. A Friday night regular, dinner host, easy company and generous. The only person to call him Mikey. But it seems Mike hardly knew him at all. ‘Of course I’ll stay. It’s the least I can do. You go home, love. I’ll see you later.’
‘Will you come to the clinic?’ Sophie asks from the depths of the pillow.
It’s late but Sami’s still awake, his hands behind his head, staring into the dark. He isn’t ready to close his eyes and anyway there’s no point, sleep is so far away, dismissed by the tight ache in his chest. He’s trying to work out whether it’s his heart or just his pride that’s dented. ‘You have no heart,’ Sophie once said to him, but that isn’t true – he can be just as emotional as the next man if he lets himself. But he doesn’t want to be emotional, that’s the point, that’s why he’s so bloody frustrated.
Sami likes to be in charge, he knows it and everyone else does, too. ‘You’re a bloody control freak, you know that, don’t you?’ The criticism has been hurled at him too many times to remember. It always rankles, especially with his mum and his sisters when they know how he suffered as a kid, but he saw the humorous side with Mike in the Boot Room days. ‘Ground control to Captain Sami’ when he was pushing things too far. ‘Sami Richards and his famous controlling power strikes again’ when he notched up yet another conquest.
‘Women like to be told,’ Sami would inform an incredulous Mike and Pete.
‘Don’t tell Olivia. She’d cut off your balls,’ Mike would reply with a grin.
They all laughed, but Sami’s success rate with women was legendary. ‘It works, I tell you. Be assertive and they go weak at the knees every time.’
‘Bet your new shiny flat in town doesn’t hurt,’ Pete would retort.
‘Nor this bloody beautiful face,’ Sami would laugh, pointing to himself.
He turns his head towards Sophie on the pillow. ‘I thought Antonia was going with you. It’s only blood and urine, isn’t it?’
He doesn’t want to think about Antonia. He texted and called her mobile several times to clear the air, but she didn’t pick up. So he resorted to leaving a message on her home answerphone this morning. ‘It’s Sami. Look, I’m sorry. Can we talk? I’ll come over to yours.’
Sophie grunts. He assumes that’s a ‘yes’ and turns back to his contemplation of old conquests. The sting of rejection is still there, but it helps to dwell on the bedpost notches. Maybe the dent is just in his pride …
‘I’m off now,’ they would say in the morning. Shelina, Joanna, Hilary, whoever. Their club clothes crumpled, their cheeks flushed with hope.
‘Yeah. See ya.’
‘Last night was really nice, Sami. I had fun.’
‘Me, too.’
‘Have a good day.’
‘Yeah. You, too.’
‘Oh, I’ll just jot down my mobile number.’
‘Yeah. Great. See ya.’
And that was that. Except once or twice when the offer of coffee at his place at the end of the evening was declined. That would be the start of a compulsive mission to hunt them, to catch them and to wear them down with telephone calls and flattery until they finally succumbed. He always succeeded. Almost always.
Antonia is huddled on the floor in front of the sofa with her arms around her knees when Mike comes back into the lounge, so he sits down next to her. He places the tray in front of them, lifts the teapot lid, stirs and then pours the strong tea into the cups. He wants to say that he feels like a fraud. Olivia suggested the teapot, the tray and the sugar before she left. He wants to say something light-hearted like, ‘I’ve become my granny. I’ll be wearing a cardigan next,’ because that’s what is usually expected of him in this house, a quip, some harmless wit. He wants to say, ‘I’m so dreadfully sorry. I feel guilty, somehow. I should have known. I should have noticed. I should have helped.’ Instead he says, ‘I didn’t think about sugar earlier, but I brought the sugar bowl in case.’
Antonia turns her gaze from the fire. ‘David took sugar,’ she replies with a small smile.
Mike nods, stuck for words, fighting the impulse to find a soft joke to smooth the edges of the silence. But he knows how unique grief can be. Some people want to talk about it and some people find it easier to withdraw. He withdrew after the miscarriage; it suited him, but looking back he realises it was selfish. It wasn’t just his grief, he should have shared. He has no idea which camp Antonia falls into and he knows her hardly at all, but he senses a solitariness about her and wishes he could help.
She’s still looking at him, her eyes not quite focusing. There’s a rigidity about her, but she seems calm, she hasn’t yet shed a tear.
‘The razor blade was mine, you know,’ she says quietly.
Mike nods, not sure if he’s heard properly and, if he has, what point she’s making. He vaguely understands that some women shave and that some women wax, armpits, legs and other places. He shifts slightly, wishing Olivia had stayed, wondering where the conversation is going.
She looks back at the open fire and the reflection of the flames dances on her solemn face. ‘He must have found it in the bathroom cabinet,’ she says slowly, as though speaking to herself. ‘It was hidden with an old diaphragm I just kept for the box. He’d had a vasectomy, why would he look in there?’ She gazes at Mike again. Her expression is blank, but her eyes seem huge. ‘He didn’t leave a note. I wonder what he was thinking. I wonder what went through his head.’
Oh fuck. I should say something. I really should, Mike thinks. He rakes a hand through his hair, squints at the fire and takes a breath. He begins to form meaningless words, but she stands up and removes her towelling robe before sitting down next to him again. She’s wearing a vest top, her honey arms are bare, except for a gold watch and a plaster, a plaster he doesn’t notice at first but which she peels away with care.
‘You’re the first person I’ve told. Ever.’ Then she starts to cry.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
‘What’s wrong, Mum?’ Rachel asks. She’s been standing in the doorway of the kitchen for several minutes watching her mother who is just sitting at the wooden table, a small paring knife in her hand, staring into space. ‘Is Dad still in bed?’
‘Nothing, love,’ Olivia says. Then, realising she’s replied on autopilot, she corrects herself, feeling guilty at having momentarily forgotten about the terrible tragedy of last night. ‘Actually, something awful has happened, Rach. Come and sit down.’
Rachel’s face blanches and she sits down slowly, her eyes fixed on her mother’s.
‘Oh, it’s nothing to do with us, love,’ Olivia says hurriedly, reminding herself that her eldest child is nearly thirteen, a bright girl who notices everything.
‘Dad and I got a call when you were in bed last night. David Stafford has died. Poor Antonia found him. Dad stayed over to help out, which is why he’s still asleep.’
‘Oh Mum, that’s so sad … What, what happened?’
Olivia touches Rachel’s face and fixes a strand of dark hair behind her ear. ‘I’m afraid he killed himself, love.’
‘Grandma says that’s a mortal sin.’
‘Grandma says lots of things, Rach. I don’t know what Dad thinks, but no one has a right to judge. Life isn’t that simple. There are always reasons why people do what they do.’
Rachel nods. ‘I know, Mum, but still … He’s left Antonia all alone in that great big house. She must be so sad. It’s her I feel sorry for.’
‘Me, too. And such a terrible shock.’
Olivia stands and turns back to the work surface. She knows Rachel wants to ask more questions about David, but she can’t talk just now. She’s been preparing the school lunch boxes as usual but today the smell of the cheddar cheese makes her feel sick. Now that she thinks about it, she hasn’t been feeling a hundred per cent for several weeks. The strange taste in her mouth, the inab
ility to enjoy a cup of tea, the sharp reaction to certain odours. Looking drained. Tiredness too. They’ve all crept upon her unawares because she’s always so bloody busy, because it isn’t what she was expecting.
Sami wakes early to find Sophie’s green eyes open and staring at him.
‘Bloody hell, Soph, you gave me a fright. You’re not usually awake this early.’
‘How do you know? You’re not either.’
Sophie’s been awake for at least an hour, which is unusual, she admits to herself, but she has an excuse. It’s the fertility clinic today, her stomach’s in nervous turmoil and she wants to be sick. But she won’t puke, she never does, which is a shame when she has at least a stone in weight to lose.
She continues to gaze at Sami’s face. He’ll be thirty-eight soon, but he looks exactly the same as the day they met. Black skin wears well, she thinks. Like Martha, like all his bloody sisters. But they don’t have Sami’s razor-sharp cheekbones, their faces are plump, their bodies are plump, thank God.
Eight years on and her need for him is as intense as ever. She tries not to show it, but at times it’s difficult. Like now. She knows he was awake into the early hours, restlessly kicking the covers, an occasional sigh escaping him. Something’s bothering him. She doesn’t want or need to know what it is, she just wants it to pass without incident, without him looking at her and ‘seeing you for what you are’. Her mother’s words. So hurtful, so hateful and yet so true.
She first spoke to him at Tiger Tiger one Friday, at nearly closing time. She’d clocked him earlier in the evening, dancing with his mate Mo, and she pointed him out to Antonia. ‘My God, that man is beautiful. Look at his face. Look how he moves. He’s mine, OK? Mine!’ she said. Then later, she’d just come out of the ladies’ and he was there, near the bar where she’d left Antonia, all teeth and charm. By the time she made her way over to them, he was asking Antonia, or rather telling her, to go to his pad for coffee, there and then. ‘Come on, woman, it’s only around the corner. You know you want to. We would make such beautiful babies.’
She stretches out in the too-warm bed and sighs. ‘We would make such beautiful babies.’ She’s thought about those words so often, too often. It was only a cheap chat-up line, she knows, but still, they hurt, really hurt.
Sami’s eyes are closed again, but his breathing is shallow and she knows he’s not asleep.
‘Sami, don’t forget my appointment at the clinic. It’s at three.’
‘What, me and Antonia? Isn’t that overkill? You really don’t need us both.’
His eyes flick open and Sophie catches the frown. ‘Have you fallen out with her or something?’ he asks.
‘No. She was just acting a bit strangely yesterday and I’d really like you to come. Pretty please, Sami?’
The frown clears and he grins. Sophie is inching her soft hand up the inside of his thigh, higher and higher, her touch firm but yielding, just as he likes. ‘So you want me to come, do you?’ he asks, pulling her towards him.
Mike yawns and tries to focus on the room, on the work piled high on his office desk.
‘You haven’t been listening to a word I’ve said, have you?’ a voice interrupts.
He looks up at Judith’s round face. She’s actually frowning, which is probably a first. ‘Because I’m not having you call me every five minutes when I’ve got a baby to look after, Mike. One baby will be enough, thank you! Sue and Jane are covering for me, but no one will be as super-efficient and as wonderful as I am. Got that?’
‘Got it.’
‘Then listen!’
Mike nods, dutifully looks at Judith and pretends to listen. He thinks of explaining why he’s late, telling her the shocking news about David. He tells her most things. She’s a good listener and they share the same sense of humour. But effectively gossiping about a friend’s suicide feels wrong.
He tries to keep his eyes focused on Judith’s face, but his mind drifts back to Antonia. It was all so surreal that a fraction of him wants to share the events of the previous evening with someone just for a reality check. But then again, there are visual memories stored in his mind that he won’t confess to another living soul. Not that he’s done anything wrong. He most definitely hasn’t.
As Mike silently looked on last night, Antonia peeled off the plaster carefully and slowly, nipping her bottom lip with her even white teeth, her face entirely focused on the task. He wasn’t sure what he expected to see, but it was simply a cut starting to heal. She gazed at him for a moment, her eyes large and luminous. ‘You’re the first person I’ve told. Ever,’ she whispered. Then she dropped her head and tears spilled from her eyes, running down to the end of her nose where they gathered before dripping down on to her glossy chest. And it was all so fucking erotic that for a moment he couldn’t move. But then he rallied.
‘Tissues,’ he said. ‘Where do I find tissues?’ By the time he returned to the lounge with a toilet roll, Antonia had put her robe back on and was sitting on the sofa, her legs curled up beneath her.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, blowing her nose. ‘You must think I’m nuts. I probably am.’
Good God, I’ve lived such a closeted life, was all he could think as the penny dropped that she’d cut herself, but then she smiled, letting him off the hook of a reply.
‘Talk to me,’ she said, closing her eyes. ‘About anything. You have such a lovely soft accent. I don’t want to talk or to think. It’s nice just to listen.’
She fell asleep, eventually. He covered her in a blanket, added logs to the fire, then just watched and waited in the armchair opposite, not knowing what he was supposed to do. The doorbell awoke him eventually. He opened the front door and a gentle-faced, middle-aged family liaison officer was waiting patiently on the top step. ‘Don’t worry. You go home, I’ll be here when she wakes,’ she said and wafted him away.
Life goes on, Olivia thinks, pushing the trolley up and down the aisles of the huge supermarket. It’s a different Tesco from the one she usually shops at, but looks identical inside.
A Tesco is a Tesco, she muses. Whatever is happening to the world outside, tragedy, anxiety, guilt and death, Tesco still heaves with shoppers, everyone oblivious to everyone else.
Mike arrived home by taxi at some point during the night without waking her. When the dawn chorus alerted her to morning, she gazed at his sleeping face for a while before slipping out of the bed. His dark hair was curling slightly and stubble shadowed his chin.
He’d had long hair when they met at university, so dark and handsome. ‘Irish exotic,’ she described him to her sister, thrilled to be the sole object of his affections.
‘Daddy looks like a pirate!’ the girls laughed when they saw an old photograph and they were right. Serious, dark looks which masked the sunny, funny person inside.
She gently kissed his cheek and sighed, remembering those long and terrible weeks when she’d convinced herself that she’d lost that sunny, funny person. Waking him gently at ten, they hugged in silence for a long time. ‘How did it go?’ she eventually asked. ‘Was it awful?’
‘No, it was fine. Antonia fell asleep and the next thing I knew was the arrival of a female police officer. I suppose she’s still in shock. It really is so dreadful. Thank God we have each other, Olivia.’
She thinks of his words as she shakes herself back to the present. While he slept she’d called his office at nine to let them know he’d be late. Judith had come on to the line and she was as lovely as ever, friendly, interested, funny, talking about her maternity leave which starts in two weeks, so excited about becoming a mum.
The forgiven but not forgotten exchanges between her and Mike pierce Olivia yet again. The thought of him and Judith having an affair now seems so preposterous. Oh God, what had she become? What had she been thinking?
She tries to concentrate on the task of her shopping. She doesn’t have a shopping list, which isn’t a good idea when she’s so distracted. But the one thing she has to buy is already in the tr
olley, waiting furtively beneath the Guardian. She tries to put that thought to one side as she gazes at the green leafy veg. Fruit isn’t a problem, but how to sneak in just one veg a day with a fussy five-year-old child feels beyond her.
As she anticipates, the toilets are behind the cafe, but there’s a queue. One of the three cubicles is out of order. She vaguely wonders if the other women suspect as she waits. Can they tell by the way she holds her handbag tightly under her arm? Or by the loud thrashing of her heart?
Perhaps I’ve got it wrong, she thinks as she pees on the pregnancy testing stick. Perhaps I’ve just wasted a fiver.
She stays in the cubicle far, far too long. ‘Are you all right in there, love?’ someone eventually asks, tapping at the door.
Olivia dabs the tears at the corners of her eyes with toilet roll and takes a deep shaky breath. It’s shock, she thinks, that’s all. Just shock. She’ll get her head round it. Everything will be fine.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The chilled bottle of wine and the empty crystal glass are sitting on the coffee table, staring at Sophie. They’ve been there for a good ten minutes, untouched.
A debate is raging in her head as she studies the dribbles of condensation pooling on the shoulders of the bottle. To drink or not to drink; to call Antonia or to call Sami; to cancel or not to cancel the clinic appointment. Those are the questions.
The answer is usually straightforward, but Sami has put a spanner in the works. Ready for work that morning, he was at the door when he spoke, a parting shot as usual. ‘She asked me to visit her, you know,’ he said, looking at his nails. He was wearing a new shirt and tie, lilac and matching, Sophie noticed. He glanced up and caught her eye. ‘Antonia, that is. She phoned me at work and asked me to pop over.’
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