Come Back to Me

by Sara Foster

  No matter which way he turned, he couldn’t see the right way forward.

  It was only when he reached the end of the track, with densely packed trees blocking his progress in every direction, that he realised he must have strayed off course without even noticing. At the same time it dawned on him that to have any chance of finding Julia he was going to have to talk to one of the few people he disliked intensely. He only hoped Mark didn’t feel as strongly about him, or he was already in trouble and he hadn’t even started yet.

  With a heavy heart he stopped walking and turned around to retrace his steps, hoping it wouldn’t take him too long to find the pathway again.

  12

  The sun was low in the sky as they drove the few miles to June and George’s. Chloe grimaced as it bored brightly into her eyes, and tried to keep her concentration on the road.

  Alex was sitting beside her, silent, smartly groomed in a white shirt with a light blue check and dark blue jeans. Chloe’s mother was behind them in the back seat, chattering away inconsequentially. Alex and Chloe had stopped replying to her a good ten minutes ago and she didn’t seem to have noticed. It was like supermarket muzak – they tuned in now and again and the rest of the time it washed over them subliminally. The sweet stink of her mother’s perfume – had she bathed in the stuff? – had overwhelmed Chloe when they’d first got in the car. She wondered if it was the pregnancy – she didn’t normally get queasy from her mother’s Elizabeth Arden.

  After Chloe had made her verbal slip that morning, her mother had continually tried to talk to her about the pregnancy as they progressed through town, until Chloe had had to say quite rudely, ‘Can we just stop,’ at which point Margaret had taken umbrage and stopped talking about anything at all, which meant the rest of the shopping trip had passed in a rather blissful silence. They hadn’t got back until late afternoon, and so it had seemed a rush to turn around and get ready for their trip out this evening. Chloe just prayed that her mother would be able to keep quiet. Why had she entrusted her with something so important?

  June and George’s house suddenly rose to greet them as they topped a hill, and Chloe slowed and pulled into the driveway. The huge farmhouse door was open within milliseconds – June must have been watching for them through the letterbox, Chloe mused, as she got out of the car, waving and smiling.

  June and Margaret greeted each other as though they were two old Dames reunited at the BAFTAs, and everyone watched and waited from the wings till the performance had finished. Then Chloe spotted George in the doorway and walked over to him.

  ‘How are you, Chloe?’ he greeted her warmly, kissing her cheek. ‘And Alex.’ He extended his hand and they shook firmly. George looked across at his wife and rolled his eyes. ‘You wouldn’t think those two saw each other every Wednesday at the gardening club. Come on in.’

  George led the way and they followed, Alex gently placing a hand on the small of Chloe’s back as she moved forward. She was immediately aware of his touch and turned to him. He was watching her, an odd intense look on his face, but as she smiled so did he.

  This is unbearable, Chloe thought as she turned away. Why am I trying to read his every expression? This is my husband: we’re best friends, soul mates – we instinctively know the other. How on earth has this suddenly become so hard?

  Two hours later, after a feast of roast lamb and veggies and conversation dominated by gardening-club gossip from June and Margaret, they had all retired to the lounge. The men were swirling whisky around their glasses, listening as the older women held court. Chloe was exhausted. She kept watching Alex to see if he exhibited signs of tiredness, but he appeared fine. Mind you, she thought grumpily, he’d had a lie in, while it felt like she’d been up shopping since dawn. She’d managed to abstain from alcohol over dinner by saying she was driving. Normally she would still have had a glass, but she’d said she was tired so didn’t dare indulge, and everyone had accepted that.

  ‘So, Chloe -’ Chloe snapped out of her daydreaming as she heard her name – ‘getting clucky yet?’

  Damn you, June, Chloe thought, noticing that her mother was watching intently. She glared at her, wondering if Margaret had been unable to keep her mouth shut for even half a day, but the woman gave an almost imperceptibly small shake of her head in reply.

  ‘A little…’ she said hesitantly.

  Alex came to life immediately. ‘Are you?’ He leaned forward, leather chair creaking as he did so. ‘That’s news to me.’

  ‘Happens to us all, Alex, sooner or later,’ Margaret chipped in breezily.

  ‘Well, maybe, but we’re not ready for that yet, are we, Chloe?’

  ‘Aren’t we?’ Chloe, stunned, looked at Alex.

  ‘Well, no. I need to establish my business more – and you’ve got stuff you want to do in the practice – there’s no need to rush it.’

  ‘I suppose -’

  Margaret cut in. ‘But there’s never a perfect time, Alex. Remember that.’

  ‘I know.’ Alex sounded irritated. ‘But Chlo and I need to feel solid and secure in our lives before we complicate everything with a kid. I’m just not interested at the moment.’

  Margaret, her jaw slack, looked at Chloe. And Chloe, horrifyingly, felt tears spring to her eyes. She stared down at her tepid mug of tea. ‘Well, then,’ she said, fighting her tears and the hot blush she could feel staining her cheeks.

  When she glanced up, Alex was watching her in surprise, and she was sure he’d guessed. There had been an awkward silence for a number of excruciating seconds now, and he opened his mouth to fill it just as June said, ‘Well, poor Jeanna can’t have any children. It breaks my heart that our son won’t ever be a father.’

  ‘June!’ George scolded crossly. ‘It’s actually none of our business, and besides, our girls have produced enough between them to keep a primary school from going under.’

  Alex’s attention was still on Chloe, but he didn’t seem shocked now so much as intrigued. Maybe he hadn’t guessed at all.

  Chloe avoided meeting his gaze, then sat back and closed her eyes. June was still talking about how Jeanna and Michael were planning to travel for six months next year, now that they’d come to terms with the news. Lucky old Jeanna, Chloe thought to herself, then immediately rubbed her tummy superstitiously and said silently, I didn’t mean it, baby. I didn’t mean it.

  13

  Mark arrived at the house in a foul mood. An hour’s journey on a winter’s night had taken him more than twice as long as it should have done. Had he not felt so tired, he would have been furious and vowing to write to somebody important over this disgrace of a transport system. Leaves on the line, snow on the line – even bloody bodies on the line, according to one whispered remark behind him. There was something utterly repulsive about the mindset of a commuter, that now, every time he heard of a body on the line his only thought was, ‘Well, get it off the bloody line, then, and let’s be on our way.’

  In actual fact a train had broken down ahead of the one Mark was on, so he had to get off and board a bus between Orpington and Sevenoaks. At that point he’d tried to call his parents to collect him rather than suffer the indignity of bus travel with a plague of hyperactive adolescents, the boys’ low-slung waistbands beginning on roughly the same portion of their bodies as the girls’ tiny skirts ended. However, the house phone at The Willows rang out without even the answering machine clicking on, so Mark endured the bumpy, windy bus ride with his head stuck determinedly behind his paper, not reading a word, but checking his watch every two seconds until the bus pulled up outside Sevenoaks Station.

  Thank god there was a cab there. He pushed his way through the throngs on the platform and raced along the walkway with his arm outstretched and a silent plea that no one would claim it first. The cabbie nodded as he got in and said, ‘Barnfield Drive, please’, then they were off. Mercifully, the driver was a silent let’s-get-you-there type rather than one of the let’s-get-it-all-off-my-chest-on-the-way cabbies Mark dreaded.
Cab time was vital court-prepping time, and you didn’t need someone asking your advice about importing their underage Thai girlfriend.

  When he finally arrived he was somewhat disconcerted to find the house in total darkness. It wasn’t a major problem, he had a key, but still – as they had invited him over, they should at least be home.

  He let himself in and switched on a few lights. The answering machine on the Edwardian rosewood table in the hallway showed a resolute 0 messages. The curtains to the front rooms were still open, so he went around closing them, wondering where on earth his parents could be. The house seemed so quiet now, since the dog had died a few years before.

  He peeked into his father’s study, feeling like a trespassing child, hearing his father saying to his ten-year-old self, ‘The law is the foundation upon which society stands, and also upon which it falls. Ergo, to uphold the law is the most important job that one can do,’ as Mark was allowed to handle legal books reverently as though they were lost covenants. But the room was absolutely still.

  He went back to the lounge, poured himself some Glenmorangie and sat down on one of the leather armchairs, idly picking up a nearby National Geographic and flicking through it with no real interest in the content. His mind kept drifting towards shiny dark hair and mesmerising brown eyes. Bloody hell, why on earth couldn’t he just let it go; even thinking about her made him feel like an idiot.

  Two hours and a few more glasses of whisky later, he was exhausted. He had tried both parents’ mobiles, but they were off. He briefly thought about ringing hospitals or checking the news for car accidents, but he couldn’t imagine his father rushing into a panic in the same situation – in fact, Henry would just have been enraged at the inconsideration – and his resolve stiffened. He would go to bed, sleep on it, and if they weren’t home by morning he would be sure something was up. He’d grown up with a father promising to be places and turning up hours late, if at all, due to some kind of emergency court session/meeting/law function. Perhaps his mother had been dragged into some such thing and they’d forgotten he was coming – they’d arranged it a couple of weeks ago, after all.

  He pulled at his loose tie, brought it over his head and folded it into a small neat oblong. Then he made his way wearily up the stairs, grateful now for the sandwich he’d grabbed on the train, which at the time he’d thought of as a stale appetiser for the decent meal he would be getting at home.

  He had just crawled beneath the sheets when he heard the front door open, and footsteps echo through the hallway then up the stairs. They paused on the landing outside his door, but Mark froze, annoyed at his parents now for being so tardy. Not long after they moved on, he was asleep.

  When Mark woke up, light was marauding through the gap between the curtains. He knew something was wrong. He couldn’t believe that he hadn’t known it the night before. A quick check of his mobile told him it was ten past eight, and he pulled on some clothes before rushing downstairs.

  His mother sat at the kitchen table, one hand pressed to her forehead as she brooded over a cup of tea.

  ‘Where were you last night?’ he asked tersely.

  ‘I needed to go out.’

  ‘Well, that’s nice. You invite me over for dinner then neither of you can be bothered to turn up. Thanks a lot.’

  ‘Oh, Mark,’ his mother turned on him with a glare. ‘Stop being such a pouty little boy. That’s the last thing I need right now, seeing as your father’s run off in a sulk.’

  ‘What? What do you mean? Why didn’t you wake me?’ Mark replied, more angrily than he intended.

  ‘There’s nothing you can do,’ his mother said, not looking up.

  ‘Why… what…?’ Mark asked, uncomprehending. ‘Where’s Dad gone?’

  Finally, his mother looked at him. Her face had lost some of its usual composure. Her cheeks sagged, her eyes were red.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she sighed. ‘He just left.’

  ‘Left?’ Mark was mystified. ‘What? What do you mean left?’

  ‘He packed a bag, and left.’ His mother shrugged her shoulders. ‘He didn’t tell me where he was going. When I asked him, he told me to fuck off.’

  Mark couldn’t help it, the laugh was out before he could stop it. ‘Don’t be silly,’ was all he said. At which point his mother rose slowly and imperiously from her seat. She put her hands on the table, leaned forward, and, with such vehemence that Mark took a step back, hissed, ‘Don’t you ever say that to me. Ever.’ She waved a finger at him then paused, eyeing him mirthlessly, before she sighed and said coldly, ‘Stop trying to make yourself into an identical version of your father.’ She gave a rasping laugh, warped and humourless. ‘That is not such a great thing to be, Mark. I’d aim a bit higher, if I were you.’

  Mark held up his hands in surrender, though anger began to course through him at her words. ‘Well then, Mum, why don’t you explain this to me properly, and then I might have more chance of understanding exactly what’s going on.’

  Emily Jameson turned her empty eyes towards him. ‘He’s been in one hell of a mood for a while, then he came home yesterday, wouldn’t say two words to me, packed a bag and told me he was leaving. When I’d ranted enough he grabbed me by the shoulders and told me it was for my own good! Hah!’ She turned around abruptly so he couldn’t see her face, and stared out of the kitchen window. ‘I always knew he was a condescending, supercilious bastard – I knew there’d be a few floosies somewhere, a few tarts lurking on the side – but I never thought he’d actually leave.’ Her voice broke on the ‘never’.

  Mark was rendered speechless by this outburst. Floosies? Tarts? Eventually, to break the awkward deadlock, he moved forward and clumsily put his arm around her shoulders. ‘Mum…’

  She shook off his arm. ‘Don’t patronise me. I know how much you idolise that man – just leave me alone.’

  Mark remained where he was, still staggered by what he was hearing.

  ‘GO!’ she shouted, her hands pushing against his chest in a surge of strength before she seemed to succumb to an intense tiredness, collapsing back on to her chair, whispering, ‘Please, just leave me alone.’

  Mark moved into the hallway in a daze. He walked calmly upstairs, finished getting dressed, and grabbed the rest of his things. He heard his mother’s brisk movements in the kitchen, and various crashes of china, pots and pans. Suddenly he was infuriated. He felt his heart harden, and he marched downstairs, banging the front door shut loudly without looking back.

  As he walked down the drive he used his mobile to phone a taxi. Ten minutes, the man said. Mark leaned against the gate, trying to shut out his parents’ troubles. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d waited here – probably not since the school bus collected him en route to the high school, when he’d hope that Stuart Gaskell and David Tamworth were in a good mood and might give him a day off the constant goading and ear flicking and skin pinching that was their forte. Now, at the memory of them, he almost smiled. He hadn’t thought about them for such a long time – yet their pettiness had once been the sum of his concerns.

  His mobile phone began to trill. Mark looked at the phone but didn’t recognise the number.

  ‘Mark Jameson,’ he announced as he answered it.

  ‘Mark, it’s Alex,’ came the voice. ‘Sorry to ring you on a Sunday…’

  Mark felt irritation well up in him at the same time as disappointment crushed against his chest. He hadn’t realised how much he’d hoped it would be his dad, calling to explain what the hell was going on.

  ‘… I just wondered if you have a number for… Julia,’ Alex was saying as Mark tried to refocus on the voice in his ear. ‘… I need… I would like to contact her.’

  I just bet you would, Mark thought. Alex’s tone might have been polite, but it came across as condescension marked with disdain. The smug bastard already had Chloe, and now he was muscling in on the one woman whose recent presence had pierced through Mark’s general lethargy towards the opposite sex.


  ‘Alex…’ he cut in.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Go to hell,’ Mark growled as he snapped the phone shut.

  14

  ‘Why were you so upset last night, Chlo?’

  That’s what Chloe had been waiting to hear – in the car on the way home from June and George’s; in her mother’s guest bedroom surrounded by primrose wall paper; at breakfast the next morning when her mother left the room. She was still waiting, and they were in the car only half an hour from home. If he could only have asked the question she would have blurted out exactly why. She was desperate to talk, but as Alex commented on petrol prices, roadworks, her mother’s back garden (‘very overgrown, considering she’s in the gardening club – it could be so nice’) her growing anger began to form knots in her stomach. She put a protective hand on her abdomen.

  She winced every time she remembered Alex’s dismissive comments last night. How could she tell him about the baby now, knowing that he would be disappointed and upset – so far from the overjoyed reaction she had previously pictured. Okay, so it wasn’t planned, as such, but they had talked about children and always agreed they would love to have them someday.

  The Alex that Chloe had seen in the past few days was becoming less and less recognisable. She could have sworn she knew her husband inside out, but now doubts had begun to plague her. How many secrets does he have? Do I know him at all? She tried to think about the skeletons in her closet – not that there were many – the things she’d deliberately never told Alex. Like the time Mark had tried to kiss her after a work evening out a few months before her wedding. She hadn’t told Alex as she thought it would just cause trouble, and she’d handled it. And Mark had been steaming drunk. Besides, all people have such secrets, she consoled herself. And Alex must have them too.