by Barker, Ashe
Never one to be sparing in my misery I turn over the events of the last few weeks in my mind. When did he…? When could he have…? I remember that night he phoned me to say he was on his way to the airport to catch his flight to Ankara. It was a Friday evening and I did think at the time that it was odd to go then. Why not Sunday, or Monday morning when the construction site would be open and he could meet with his associates in Turkey? But no, he said he needed to go on Friday evening. Much more likely he was spending the weekend here in Leeds, with Susanna or someone else. Even over the last three weeks he’s been over here frequently, admittedly coming home to Black Combe most nights. But not all. He’s had plenty of opportunity, and it’s obvious that he’s been taking those chances when he could.
The shit. The cheating, lying piece of pond scum.
Leaning my head back against the wall I draw in deep, wrenching breaths, struggling to recapture my shattered soul, regain some sense of self and self-worth. Through the red and black mist of pain and jealousy I try to think, work out my options. What to do? What the hell to do now?
He’s only six floors below me. I could march into Darke Associates and demand an explanation. Yeah, like that’d work. Or I could humiliate him, like he’s humiliated me. I toy with the tempting notion of bundling all his naughty, kinky little gadgets in a bag and taking them down to his office. I could dump them on his conference room table, hopefully in front of all his business associates. With a card saying ‘Love from Susanna’. Or I could shred his clothes, cut them up with scissors and leave them in a pile on his bed. A lesser mortal than me might even piss on them. Or, most satisfying of all, I could pretend nothing’s wrong, persuade him to stay here another night, and cut his dick off while he’s asleep. With scissors.
But I’m not doing any of that stuff. All I’ve got left is my pride, my dignity. And that’s pretty thin on the ground at this moment. So I’m cutting my losses and I’m getting out of here. If my sanity’s still intact, and I’m not at all convinced at this precise moment that it is, that’ll just have to do.
I manage to haul myself to my feet. Catching sight of my ravaged face in the mirror over the sink I lean on the basin and contemplate what to do to set myself to rights. The image of dumping that bag of sex toys on Nathan’s conference room table comes to mind again, but I shove that tempting notion aside and turn on the cold tap. I splash water on my face and clean my teeth. The improvement is marginal, but I call it a draw and stagger out of the bathroom.
I take a few minutes to empty the few things that belong to me from the drawers in the bedroom and stuff them in my bag. It’s not much—a change of underwear, a hairbrush and a copy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. On second thoughts, I toss the book back on the bed. I dump Nathan’s iPad next to it along with my key card—I want nothing of his. I fold Susanna’s tie neatly and place that alongside the rest of the stuff on the bed, and I head out of the door once more.
It’s only been an hour since I last stood in this foyer, and in that time my world has shifted on its axis. If I hadn’t forgotten my phone, if I hadn’t decided on impulse that I wanted to text Nathan and gone back to get it, I might have missed Susanna, might never have known what a shit he was. And how gloriously happy I would have remained in my ignorance.
Stiffening my shoulders I hit the lift call button.
Chapter Nine
I let myself into my mother’s London flat a little after three o’clock that afternoon. As I had driven out of the underground car park in Clarence Dock I’d had absolutely no idea where I was headed, just that I was relieved beyond measure that I’d driven my own little car over to Leeds. I couldn’t have left without Miranda, and to go back to Black Combe to retrieve her would have been just too awkward. Pity I hadn’t thought to sling my violin in the boot before we left, but I’ll worry about that later. I’m not bothered about any of my other things, even my lovely new clothes. Too many painful, beautiful memories. On autopilot I’d found myself heading for the M1, and I’d passed Nottingham before I realised I was going home. To my mother’s.
So here I am, wandering round her empty flat while she’s happily oblivious at Black Combe. Rosie will have just got home from school, probably. They’ll be sitting around the kitchen table hearing all about her day, about Miss Andrews’ latest pearls of wisdom, planning what to do this evening, looking forward to Nathan and me getting home. I sink onto the settee in my mother’s tidy little living room and sob again. Then I throw up again. Then I sob some more. Eventually I just lie on the settee, in silent misery, wishing I was dead. And I find my thoughts wandering to how I might bring about that happy state of affairs…
Holy fucking bollocking shit! I’m contemplating suicide! Like fuck I am!
My life might not have been up to much before I hightailed it up to Yorkshire and met up with Mr Lying-Cheating-Screwing-Everything-With-A-Pulse Darke, but it was okay. More or less. And it will be again, given time. It has to be.
Just to be on the safe side, though, I drag myself into my mother’s bathroom and empty all her cold and flu treatments down the sink. Paracetamol overdoses can be very nasty. I consider dumping all her sharp implements down the waste disposal chute but decide that’s probably not necessary. I’m far too squeamish for any really gory stuff.
By way of comfort I decide to settle for a bottle—or two—of my mother’s fine vintage red wine. I’d pig out on chocolate and ice cream too, but I can’t find any. Another of my mother’s health kicks probably. I could go down to the off-licence on the corner to top up my supplies of comfort food, but it’s too much effort so I lie back down on the settee, intending to get really drunk. Even that’s too much for me, though, as the first long sip of wine comes straight back up. My constant sickness is getting to be a real pain. Anyone would think I was pregnant.
Shit! Shit, shit, shit! This is a day for world-rocking revelations it seems, and this second heat-seeking missile hits me, if anything, harder than the first. Could it be…? No, impossible. I’m on the pill. I haven’t missed any. Well, not really missed, just been late once or twice as I settled into my new routine. Shit!
Impossible or not, I drag myself off the settee, glad that I didn’t manage to keep any alcohol down because now I need to drive again. I climb back into the long-suffering Miranda and head for St John’s Wood shopping centre. I dump Miranda in the car park and dive straight into Boots. Ten minutes later I’m sitting in a cubicle in the shoppers’ toilets, pissing on a stick.
* * * *
I spend the evening crying, throwing up, and ignoring my phone. First Nathan starts ringing and texting around six, no doubt having arrived back at his apartment and found my pile of treasure trove on his duvet. Then my mother takes up the cudgels. I’m talking to no one. I turn the ringer off, then turn the phone off completely. It’s only a matter of time before the battery dies anyway and my charger is at Black Combe. On impulse I start it up before it dies permanently and fire off two texts. The first is to my mother, asking her to bring my violin back home with her when she leaves Black Combe. Finally I text Nathan. Just two words sum it up.
You Bastard.
* * * *
The following morning, after about three minutes’ sleep and hours of tossing, turning, crying, throwing up, and wondering what the fucking hell to do now, I know at least that I can’t stay here. My mother won’t stay on at Black Combe once it’s clear that I’m not coming back there. So I reckon I’ve got, at best, two days before she arrives home. I need to get my affairs in order before I up sticks again. Starting with Ben. I need to phone him, grovel to him over missing the meeting in Leeds, ask him for a bit more time off. Like maybe nine months.
I use my mum’s landline because my mobile is dead. I phone Ben’s mobile, and I’m amazed to get straight through. I’d expected him to be lecturing, his phone safely tucked up in his desk drawer. I’d intended to leave a message then make a run for it. No such luck. I get as far as “Is that you, Ben?” before I’m hit by th
e barrage of angry, anxious questions.
“Eva, thank God. What the hell are you playing at? I’ve been so worried. Everyone’s frantic about you. Where are you? What’s happened? Are you okay?”
“I… I’m… I’m…” Feeling as though I’m drowning, that’s as far as I get before I’m sobbing again, clutching the phone to my chest. I can hear Ben, frantic now, calling my name. “Eva, Eva, don’t hang up. Talk to me. What’s happened?” Defeated, desperate, I hang up. And lie back down on the floor.
* * * *
Bang, bang, bang! Crash! More banging, shouting… I wearily open my eyes, confused momentarily at my unfamiliar whereabouts. In the distance I can hear a voice, calling me. Yelling my name. And more violent banging.
“Eva! Open the door, Eva! I know you’re there so open this bloody door or I’ll kick it in.” More banging, the thump of a determined fist pounding on the door at the bottom of the stairs leading to my mum’s first floor flat. I try to sit up, but I’m stiff, cold from sleeping on the floor in my mother’s living room. My head’s all over the place. I can’t seem to think straight.
The banging and din starts up again, the voice familiar. A man, shouting at me, demanding that I let him in. I hear the door shake on its hinges and realise he’s started kicking it. I stagger to my feet.
The pounding on the door continues as I make my way slowly, carefully down the stairs. I reach the door and twist the Yale latch, leap back as it flies open under the vicious assault.
“Hello, Ben.” I turn and make my way slowly back upstairs. I need to throw up again.
“Christ, Eva, you look awful. What’s happened? Why are you here on your own?” I’m sitting once more on the settee, my head in my hands, and Ben is alongside me, his arm over my shoulders, gently massaging my upper arm. He gets up and I hear the fridge door opening and closing in the kitchen before he’s back, shoving a glass of chilled water into my hand. He insists I take small sips. It’s cool, pleasantly refreshing. Why didn’t I think of this?
At last I feel human enough to raise my head out of my hands and I look at him. My face must be a mess, but Ben doesn’t turn a hair. He just folds me in his arms and hugs me while I cry some more. So much for professional boundaries. Between my gulping sobs and interspersed by runs to the loo to throw up, the whole crappy tale comes out. I keep the stuff about canes and butt plugs to myself—some stuff is just too private—but I tell him the rest. In particular I tell him about Susanna. And all the others who came before me in Nathan’s bed, and are still apparently coming.
As I dump the whole sorry lot in front of him Ben says nothing. He listens, occasionally asking a question to clarify, but makes no comment. Until I’m finished. Then he simply asks, “Are you sure?”
I nod. I wish there were some doubt, but I can’t see any room for it. I’m sure.
“So it’s over then, you and Nathan?”
I nod again, unable to stop the tears streaming down my face as that mind-numbing, awful, impossible reality is put starkly into words. Ben grabs a tissue from a box he seems to have brought with him, dabs my eyes and mumbles kind, soothing things.
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out. I like Nathan. Not the sort of man I’d have expected you to take up with, but you seemed so well suited. He’s desperate to know where you are…”
I stiffen, my eyes widening in alarm. “Did you tell him? Oh please, you didn’t, did you? I don’t want to see him. I don’t ever want to see him again!”
Ben is calm, soothing. Reassurance on a stick. “No, I didn’t tell him. When you rang me earlier I could tell by the caller ID that you were ringing from your mother’s flat. I’ve been talking to Victoria a lot recently and her number’s in my phone.”
Shit, I never thought of that. Still, I guess that’s why they made him a professor and I’m just a humble PhD.
“I could tell you were in a dreadful state. You were sobbing, pretty much incoherent. Christ, Eva, I was so frightened for you. I jumped in the car and drove straight here. I didn’t tell anyone else because, well, to be perfectly honest, I wasn’t sure what I’d find when I got here.”
I stare at him, incredulous. “From Oxford? You dropped everything and drove down here from Oxford? Because you were worried about me?”
“Of course. I care about you.”
“You care about your valuable, irreplaceable lab rat more like…”
“If you weren’t already a total wreck I’d give you a much harder time over that last remark. As it is, just understand that I do want you in my research programme, that’s true. Correction, I need you. But I also care about you. You’re hurting, and I feel for you. I want to help you. So, what can I do that will help?”
“I need more time off. I just need to get away, be on my own for a while. A few months, maybe a year…”
“No way.”
“Surely the research can wait. I will come back, I promise.”
“That’s not it. There’s no way being on your own to brood and lick your wounds is what you need right now. You need people around you, people who care, who’ll look after you. If you don’t feel like working, well, fine. We’ll wait. But you’re not getting away anywhere on your own if I can help it.”
“I can’t stay here. My mum’ll be home in a day or so…”
“Tomorrow. She’s staying in Yorkshire tonight and is booked on the ten twenty from Leeds to King’s Cross tomorrow morning. She got your text about the violin, by the way. That’s what convinced her you weren’t coming back.”
“Ah, right.” I suppose I’d thought it would.
“She’d be happy to let you stay here. She’ll understand.”
“And she’d tell Nathan where I am. He’d be here within three hours.”
“Ah. Yes, probably. I see the problem. Right. You’re coming with me then. Back to Oxford.”
“I don’t want to…”
“I know, I know. Not the college. My house. Stay with me and Gina, at least until you’re ready to make other plans.”
I just stare at him, at his kind, caring face. His unbelievable generosity has stunned me. Even if there is a bit of lab rat related self-interest there. This is still more than I can expect, more than I could ever expect. I’m speechless.
“Well, Eva?”
“I… I…”
“Say yes, Eva. And I’ll phone Gina and get her to make up the spare bed.”
I take a deep, steadying breath. “Before I say yes, there’s one more thing I should mention.”
“Oh yeah, and what’s that then?”
“I’m pregnant.”
Chapter Ten
Isabella’s beautiful. Breathtakingly lovely. She must be—everyone says so. All her adoring fan club are in total accord on this matter. And in an objective, theoretical sort of way I can see it too. There can be no doubt that I am blessed with a gorgeous baby, perfect in every pink, peachy detail. Even my thick red hair, the bane of my life for more years than I can remember, looks stunning on her. As do her father’s deep chocolate eyes.
Everyone who sees my baby tells me how blessed I am, so I am well aware of it. And I can’t disagree, given that Isabella’s so unbelievably pretty, all pink and powdered, perfumed perfection. Her rude good health and her sweet and sunny disposition charm everyone who comes within her orbit. Her grandmother dotes on her. Her adopted grandparents, Ben and Gina, are her most devoted slaves.
Which is all just as well, because I can’t stand the sight of her.
Despite the trauma of those early weeks I had a perfect pregnancy, pretty much. The vile morning sickness stopped after about twelve weeks, gone as quickly as it began, and from there on I had no further problems. If you can manage to set aside my splintered heart and crushing loneliness, I was disgustingly healthy throughout the whole experience. I did what I needed to do, registered with a GP’s practice close to where Gina and Ben live, and got myself hooked up with a midwife. I attended my ante-natal appointments religiously, read all the books and went to the classes
—well, I would, wouldn’t I?
I even went back to work during the second and third trimesters, rejoining Ben’s artificial linguistic intelligence research programme, taking up pretty much where I had left off. Incredible—a few months ago I was convinced down to my toenails that I could not return, not under any circumstances, but here I am, sitting at my old desk and wondering what all the fuss was about. And the work is so easy—I’m completely on top of it. I can clearly see what needs to happen now to progress the stalled project and I’m keen to whip it all back into shape. Bring it on. I am, it would seem, intrinsic to the work, near enough indispensable, and not much of any real note had been accomplished during my four or five months away.
My resumption of my career attracted Nathan’s attention. He had been phoning my mother constantly, demanding news of me, pleading to be told where I’d gone and why. I didn’t tell my mother where I was living and she never did put two and two together and work out who’d taken me in. I’ve been to see her fairly regularly since Isabella was born, let her drool over her perfect little granddaughter, but always returning to my little bolt hole in Oxford. Or maybe she just pretended not to know because that made it simpler with Nathan. I know she liked him, I know she thought I owed him an explanation. She told me so often enough. But I don’t agree. I owe him nothing.
“Nathan’s found the crash site.” My mother’s bizarre statement came out of nowhere as I pressed ‘reply’ to take one of her twice daily phone calls.
“What? He’s found what?”