The Waiting Game

by Sheila Bugler

  To us, she almost said but decided, just in time, that was way too corny. She stayed silent instead, sipped the champagne and wished she could taste it.

  They were in the bar at the top of the Shard, Europe’s new highest building by London Bridge station. Their plan was to have a drink here, eat in a restaurant Jim knew under the railway arches in Borough Market, and then back to their hotel in south London.

  Except food was the last thing on Ellen’s mind. She couldn’t stop thinking about later. She’d pictured it hundreds of times. Wanted it more than she’d let herself admit. One night. Tomorrow it was back to the daily grind of juggling work and family. Doing it alone was so bloody difficult. Her mind fast-forwarded six months from now. Not alone anymore. Sharing the responsibilities with Jim. Waking up in the morning beside him. Weekends spent lazing about with the kids. Nights given over to hot, steamy sex.

  For a long time, she’d thought that part of her – the sexual part – had died with Vinny. She’d been wrong.

  ‘Ready to go?’

  Jim reached out to touch her wrist. Shocks of electricity shot up her arm. Waves of desire made her light-headed. Champagne and lust – the best legal high there was. Drunk with desire. She giggled. Couldn’t help it. She was happy. Tipsy. Carefree. Horny.

  Jim said something else but she didn’t hear him. The thunderstorm of blood pumping through her head blocked out everything else. He was smiling now and she wondered, vaguely, what he was smiling at. When he smiled, a dimple appeared under his left eye. It was the very first thing she’d noticed about him all those years ago in primary school. Too young then to know anything about sex or longing. It was damn sexy, though, that dimple.

  ‘Do we have to go to the restaurant?’

  Her voice. Didn’t know how she got the words out. Didn’t care, either. Her nerves had steadied, disappeared, replaced with a startling clarity. This was it. He was it. The person she’d been waiting for. Felt like she’d been waiting her whole life, even though she knew that wasn’t true. Right now, nothing mattered. Nothing made sense. At the same time, she’d never been more certain about anything.

  The smile disappeared.

  ‘You’ve changed your mind?’ he asked.

  ‘Only about eating,’ she said. ‘Not about anything else. I don’t think I can wait any longer, that’s all. Can we skip dinner and go straight to the hotel?’

  * * *

  She was laughing. Real, proper belly laughs. Carl was laughing too. The best bit about it was that she couldn’t remember what they’d both found so funny. Then Carl puffed his cheeks out and started again: ‘The first duty of an estate agent is to stuff his face with bread and pasta and chocolates until his stomach is so HUGE he starts looking like he’s got a tyre wrapped around his middle.’

  He had Nathan’s voice down to a T. And when he moved, waddling around the way Nathan did – that strange, dainty way he had of walking – she couldn’t help herself. It was cruel, she knew that, but there was something about Nathan that invited it.

  Nathan had been out of the office on viewings all afternoon. Which made it easy enough for them to sneak off for a drink when they closed the office. Nathan had already invited her to a quiz night at his church. Said it would be fun and a great way to meet some new people. She’d half-promised to be there, but the drink with Carl had turned into an early dinner at Nandos. After that, when he’d offered to drive her home, it had seemed rude not to invite him in.

  And now here they were in the sitting room, larking about like a pair of giddy teenagers. When he’d finished his Nathan impression, and she’d managed to stop her giggles, Carl held up the empty bottle of wine.

  ‘Any more where this came from?’ he asked.

  She shook her head, good mood evaporating in an instant. What sort of person was she, not thinking what he might like? She thought she’d done okay, making sure she only drank a tiny bit, leaving the rest of it for him.

  He pulled a sad face and sat beside her on the sofa. He sat close, his thigh pressed against hers. She tensed, waiting. He put his hand on her cheek – his touch was gentle and nothing like she’d expected.

  ‘I had a great night, Chloe.’

  She dared to look at him then, trying to work out if this was some sort of trick. But what she saw in his face surprised her. He looked soft and sweet and was smiling at her, like he was delighted by her.

  His hand was still on her face, thumb stroking her cheek, softly, gently. She didn’t want him to stop. And when he leaned into her and kissed her, his lips were soft too. She didn’t respond at first. Just let him kiss her, still waiting to see what way it would go.

  He pulled back, blue eyes looking into hers. He had the loveliest eyes.

  ‘Are you okay with this?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Well, I think so. Yes.’

  Suddenly she was smiling, too. All the tension disappeared, replaced with a sort of happy lightness she’d almost forgotten it was possible to feel.

  And when he kissed her a second time, she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulled him closer and kissed him right back.

  Twenty-Three

  The first time was quick and desperate and over too quickly. The second time they took things more slowly, getting used to each other. Sometime later, they ordered room service. Toasted sandwiches and chips. They sat side by side in the bed, eating and talking over each other. Talking about everything and nothing. Ellen’s children, Frank Sinatra, Almodóvar movies, Jim’s family, crap TV programmes, Bruce Springsteen, Ellen’s memories of her birth mother, the best unusual food combinations (Ellen: vinegar and strawberries; Jim: cheese and marmalade).

  The hotel was a beautiful Art Deco building in Deptford. Their room was on the top floor with a view along the river to Greenwich. After eating, they wrapped themselves in sheets and moved across to the window. Jim dragged an armchair over and sat down, pulling Ellen onto his lap.

  ‘The river looks beautiful at night,’ Ellen said. ‘Especially now the rain has stopped. Even better than during the day.’

  ‘I don’t know about better,’ Jim said. ‘Different, yes. Beautiful, definitely. But it’s pretty impressive all the time if you ask me. One of the few good things about living in London.’

  ‘One of the many, you mean,’ Ellen said, elbowing his stomach.

  ‘Ouch,’ Jim said. No. I know you love London, but I’m not sure I feel the same way. Half the time I wish I lived somewhere else. London’s too busy for me.’

  ‘If you don’t like it,’ Ellen said, ‘why did you come back?’

  ‘Family, I suppose. My dad wasn’t an easy man but after he died, there was only Ray and my mum. And poor Ray, he’s not the easiest. I couldn’t bear to think of Mum having to deal with that on her own.’

  ‘The dual curse of the Irish,’ Ellen said. ‘Alcoholism and mental illness. I’m pretty sure my birth father was an alcoholic.’

  Jim’s arms, already wrapped around her, tightened.

  ‘I thought you couldn’t remember him.’

  ‘I don’t,’ Ellen said. ‘Not really. It’s more of a feeling than anything else. Vague memories of him coming home drunk. I remember never feeling safe when he was around. It was always better when he wasn’t there. Except that last night, of course. I used to think, you know, maybe if he’d been there, he’d have tried to stop her.’

  Her mind flickered back to the single sheet of white paper folded over on her bedside table. She still hadn’t told him. Hadn’t told anyone.

  ‘Poor woman,’ Jim said.

  ‘Poor Eilish, you mean,’ Ellen said, referring to her dead sister. ‘Murdered by her own mother.’

  ‘Eilish, too,’ Jim said. ‘But it must have been so awful for your mother.’

  An animal screaming in pain. The worst sound Ellen had ever heard. She remembered so little of that night but that sound, coming from her mother as she held her dead baby in her arms, was seared into Ellen’s brain. And yet… Ray, Jim’s brother, had a
breakdown some years earlier. A complete mental collapse, according to Jim. Ray’s illness meant he had to give up his job and his home. He’d never killed anyone, though.

  She lay back, her head resting against Jim’s shoulder. It was late and she was tired. She should sleep. Jim’s hand ran up and down her bare arm, sending little shivers through her body. His hand moved up, across her shoulder and along her chest, moving lower and lower, pushing the sheet out of the way.

  Ellen leaned back, pressing her body against his. She took his hand, guided it along her stomach. His fingers skimmed the top of her pubic hair and she groaned.

  Plenty of time for sleep later.

  She stood up and led him back to the bed. This was all she wanted. To feel the weight of his body on her, to open her legs and give herself up to this. She wanted to be consumed, for every other thought and memory and feeling to disappear until there was nothing left except him and her and this cascading crescendo of desire.

  * * *

  In the kitchen, Monica pulled a bottle of wine from the rack and opened it. Resisting the urge to drink it straight from the bottle, she poured a healthy serving into a balloon-sized wine glass and drank from that instead. As soon as she was able to, she took another slug and stood with her eyes closed, waiting for the booze to kick in.

  Her mouth ached from the effort of smiling when all she’d really wanted to do was scream with the boredom of it all. Her head hurt – actually hurt – from having to work so hard making meaningless small-talk. The amount of thick people she was forced to deal with on a daily basis was an unbearable burden at times.

  But she carried it off. With aplomb. She drank more wine, silently toasting herself on a stellar performance. She was good. No one better. Almost made her feel sorry for people like Ellen Kelly, who had no idea – not a fucking clue – what they were dealing with.

  She refilled her glass and carried it into the sitting room. The curtains were open and she stood at the window, looking out at the quiet street, as she tried to decide how to spend the rest of her evening. It was only ten o’clock. Too early to be stuck at home alone on a Friday night.

  She’d been with prospective clients. A group representing local businesses that bought art and displayed it on their office walls. An easy and lucrative way of making money. She’d spent two hours with them and knew they’d wanted her to stay longer. But the thought of spending another second in their tedious company was more than she could have endured. So she’d made her move, smiling apologetically and saying she had a busy day tomorrow and needed her beauty sleep. Played all coy when they’d both told her how fantastic she looked. As if she didn’t know it herself.

  On the way home, she took a detour. Had a drink in a bar she sometimes went to in New Cross. The sort of place you could sometimes find guys into something a bit different. No joy tonight, though. One bloke coming on to her but his breath stank of dead animals and she was nowhere near drunk enough to consider that.

  So she’d come home. And now she was wishing she hadn’t.

  The lights in the house across the road were switched off. A pity. She could do with a distraction and Harry would have been just perfect. She wondered where he was and who he was with. Getting it away with someone his own age for a change. Cheeky git. She’d have to teach him a lesson. Remind him what he could get with her that no prim little bitch his own age was likely to do for him.

  Tonight had been a mistake. She should have cancelled. Should have realised a night out with a collection of the world’s most boring people wasn’t going to give her the sort of thrill she needed right now.

  She’d been consumed by a restless energy ever since the trip to Whitstable. She had to think of something to make the time pass. Her mind switched from her father to Ellen Kelly. Still no phone call. Kelly was probably too busy getting on with her perfect life to spend time worrying about the people she was paid to protect. Monica would bet any money Kelly wasn’t wasting her Friday night sitting around feeling sorry for herself.

  Things weren’t moving fast enough. Something needed to happen to make Kelly sit up and take notice. Monica thought getting the police out the other night might have made a difference. Fat chance. No one was taking her half as seriously as they ought to.

  She looked at her reflection in the mirror that hung over the fireplace. Stroked the yellow bruises on her neck, thinking. And then it came to her. She knew exactly what she had to do. Her mood improved instantly. She carried her glass over to the big armchair by the window, sat down and started planning.

  Twenty-Four

  After breakfast, they went for a walk through Deptford market. It was a clear, sunny day that made everything vivid. Or maybe that was just her. She had to stop herself skipping as they crossed the road outside the hotel.

  Jim reached out, took her hand in his. It felt good there.

  ‘Remember this bloke Jerome I was telling you about?’ he asked.

  Ellen nodded. The young apprentice who’d been working with Jim for the last four months.

  ‘He’s really good,’ Jim said. ‘As soon as he’s trained up, I’m planning to cut down my hours. Means we’d be able to spend a bit more time together.’

  ‘What? You mean during the day and stuff?’

  Jim grinned. ‘Your enthusiasm never fails to bowl me over. Yes, during the day and stuff. I like you. I like being with you. Hey, we could take up a hobby together.’

  ‘A hobby.’

  ‘Yeah, you know, like bridge or tennis or golf. What do you say?’

  ‘I say you’d better be joking.’

  ‘What?’ He feigned disappointment. ‘You don’t want us to have a hobby together?’

  ‘Most definitely not.’

  ‘And the bit about seeing a bit more of each other?’ he asked. ‘Would you rather I was joking about that too?’

  She thought about it. Not for long.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m glad you’re not joking about that.’

  Ahead of them, Ellen could see the market, crowding out the bottom of Deptford High Street onto the New Cross Road. Her father used to bring her here when she was a kid. They’d come on Saturday mornings and buy a whole salmon from the Cod Father fish shop. These days, when she wanted fresh fish, she bought it from the fish counter in Drings on Royal Hill.

  ‘There’s a brilliant fish stall down there,’ Jim said. ‘The Cod Father. You can get a whole salmon there for under a tenner.’

  It was unnerving. She would be thinking about something and, right at the same moment, he’d start talking about it. Unnerving but kind of cute, too. If you were the sort of person who did cute. Which she certainly was not.

  Two miles along the river from Greenwich, Deptford High Street was a different world. Down-at-heel, edgy, diverse, bursting with life. Pushing their way through the Saturday morning crowds, taking in the variety of things you could buy – everything from bathroom appliances to fresh lobster – was invigorating. Ellen felt like a child with a pocketful of money. She couldn’t decide what to buy first. She wanted all of it. At a stall selling fake designer jeans, she had to stop herself grabbing a selection there and then. Before she could indulge her desire for useless tat, Jim grabbed her hand and steered her off the high street, down a quiet street leading off to the east.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

  ‘Here.’ He pointed in front of them.

  Ellen stopped, delighted. Right in front of her, at the end of the street, stood a white stone church. At the front of the building there was a circular tower with a steeple rising from the centre. Four giant columns enclosed the tower, making Ellen think the church would sit better in a rural Italian village rather than here, in the heart of urban Deptford.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen the spire, of course, whenever I’ve driven past. But I’ve never taken the time to come and see it.’

  ‘St Paul’s, Deptford,’ Jim said. ‘Baroque. Designed by Thomas Archer and built in the early eighteenth centur
y.’

  ‘Can we go inside?’ Ellen asked.

  ‘Not now,’ Jim said. ‘But we can come back another time. Bring the kids. You have to phone ahead to make an appointment. Better still, the church has its own chamber orchestra. We should come some evening and see a concert.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ Ellen said.

  Inside the churchyard, they sat on the church steps looking back towards the market. Ellen wondered if Sean had ever been here. It was the sort of place he’d love. She’d never heard him mention it, but that didn’t mean anything. These days, they lived such separate lives.

  ‘Are you and Ray close?’ she asked. She’d often wondered what it was like for other siblings. Whether they felt that fierce, protective love she had for her twin brother.

  ‘Not like you and Sean,’ Jim said, doing that thing again. Cute, she decided.

  ‘And not as much as we used to be. I idolised him when I was a kid. He was my big brother. We never had that competitive thing that some brothers do. He looked after me, I guess. Our dad wasn’t an easy man so Ray was sort of my role model. I didn’t want to be better than him, I just wanted to be him. Does that make any sense?’

  ‘Perfect sense,’ Ellen said.

  ‘By the time I went away, we’d already grown apart,’ Jim said. ‘My fault. I’d realised there was something different about him. My parents tried to ignore it. Well, my mother did. I don’t think my father even noticed, if I’m honest. My mother acted as if all the messed-up things Ray did were just minor setbacks. She didn’t get it. She couldn’t see that Ray’s just… he’s not… normal’s the wrong word but he’s not equipped to deal with day-to-day life the way most people are. His head’s not wired that way. He can’t cope. And because he can’t cope, he cracked up. Couldn’t take the strain.

  ‘The first time he lost it, I was sixteen. Ray was twenty. Still living at home. Poor Mum thought he was working, but he’d been fired from whatever job he had. Again. He still got up every morning, let my mother make him breakfast before he headed off. Except instead of going to work, he’d go and sit on his own for the day. Then this one day, he went to the pub. And stayed there. Didn’t come home for three days. Police eventually found him near London Bridge, drunk and confused.