I had arranged to meet Danny in a pub just off Streatham High Road. As I pushed the doors open, I realized with a jolt that the last time I had been in there was when I was eighteen years old. Jesus! Everything still looked exactly the same, right down to the dour-faced landlady slouching meatily over her beer pumps.
I scanned the pub slowly as I walked up to the bar. The thin straps of my shoes were already cutting into my feet, and I felt ridiculously over-dressed as I swanned in there with my slinky party dress and beaded wrap, plus a dinky little handbag to round the outfit off. An old man who was sitting alone, nursing a pint of Guinness at so leisurely a pace that the froth had yellowed and was crusting around his glass, stared openly at me as if I were a different species.
And then I saw him at the bar: Danny, with his smile just as wide and friendly as it had been all those years ago, and suddenly everything turned to slow motion as I walked the last few steps up to him. Daniel Patrick Cooper. The man himself.
‘Hello, Sadie,’ he said. He sounded as London as ever. ‘You look magic.’
‘Hiya, Dan,’ I said, feeling shy and delighted all in the same moment. ‘It’s great to see you.’ I couldn’t stop smiling. Me and Danny Cooper, in the Nag’s Head again! It was like a bizarre dream where different parts of my life were mixed up with each other. Any minute now, my old primary school teacher would come in juggling grapefruit on a unicycle, followed by Nathan, walking on his hands.
We stood there, rather awkwardly, just grinning at each other for a second, then he grabbed me and hugged me. ‘Come here,’ he said. ‘Sadie Morrison. Isn’t this weird?’
‘Isn’t it?’ I echoed, breathing in the scent of him: soap, and a faintly scorched smell from his shirt where it had been ironed a second too long, and a light, refreshing cologne. Still the boy around town. His hair, untamed as it always had been, with that wayward curl to it, brushed against my cheek.
‘What are you drinking?’ he asked. He had an almost full pint of lager by his elbow.
I was sorely tempted by a glass of wine for Dutch courage, or a gin – oh God, a gin and tonic, I so desperately wanted one – but . . . ‘Better just have an orange juice,’ I said, breezily. ‘I’m detoxing this week.’
‘Oh, right.’ If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. ‘Been overdoing it, have we?’
‘You could say,’ I replied.
We made small-talk – how his mum was feeling, how the party preparations had all gone amusingly pear-shaped, how rainy it had been in the week, his journey down from Manchester – and then moved to a corner table where we could talk more privately.
‘So, how’s work going?’ I said. ‘How’s the shop?’
The minute the words were out, I wanted to kick myself with my own pointy-heeled shoe. Stupid, stupid question! Stupid, stupid woman! Because once he’d answered me, his next question was bound to be, how’s your work going? Fantastic. I had walked right into that one, hadn’t I?
He paused and took a mouthful of his beer. I watched the lager tilt down the glass towards his mouth, and licked my own lips in envy. I suddenly felt very thirsty at the sight of the cold, gold liquid, the glass frosted up with its chill. Actually, I er . . .’ He was coughing, and fiddling around with his pack of cigarettes. When I finally dragged my eyes away from his delicious-looking Stella, I noticed how uncomfortable he seemed to be with the subject.
Then he sighed, as if something had been resolved in his mind. ‘Actually, Sadie,’ he started again, ‘you’re going to think I’m the biggest prick in the northern hemisphere, but there is no shop. I made it all up. My record shop doesn’t exist.’ I was staring at him, but he ploughed through the words anyway. ‘I’m a recruitment consultant. That’s what I really do. Work in an office. The record shop thing was . . .’ He shrugged. ‘It was my little pipe dream.’
I was still staring. ‘So you’re saying that . . .’ I frowned. ‘So you’re saying that all that stuff on the website—’
‘Is a load of bollocks, yeah,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did it. I just wanted to sound good, I suppose.’ He forced out an unhappy laugh. ‘What a wanker, eh?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Not at all. In fact . . .’
‘I mean, I know there’s nothing wrong with being a recruitment consultant. It pays the rent anyway, and it’s quite a laugh sometimes, but . . . You know. That website, everyone seems to be doing wonderful things with their lives, and I just . . .’ He took another swig of his pint. ‘I don’t know. It was a bit of fun, that’s all. Then I got carried away, and didn’t want to stop.’
A bit of fun. Hadn’t I said the exact same thing about my own lies?
‘Don’t tell my mum, will you?’ he added, leaning forward with such a sweet expression of anxiety that I wanted to cuddle him.
‘What, that you’re a recruitment consultant?’
‘No, that I lied to you. She’d go apeshit. She’d think I’m even more of a tosser than you must do.’
I shook my head. ‘Danny,’ I said gently, ‘I don’t think you’re a tosser. I think it’s funny. And actually . . .’
His shoulders sagged with relief. ‘Really? You think it’s funny? You’re not pissed off about it?’
‘No,’ I told him. ‘Because I know why you did it.’
He was visibly relaxing into his chair, leaning back and spreading his arms out expansively so that his hands dangled over the sides. ‘You know, I reckon loads of people must do it. That temptation of, Oh, who cares? Might as well have a bit of a laugh, put down a few fibs . . .’
‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘I’m sure loads of people exaggerate, or tell porkies. Which is funny, because—’
‘Of course, the likes of Ms Sadie Morrison would have no truck with that, though,’ he teased. ‘The media princess, stalking the corridors of power at Channel 4, eh?’
I shook my head.
‘Oh, sorry, is it the BBC? I thought it was—’
‘No,’ I said. Bloody hell, was I going to have to spell it out to him?
He was looking blankly back at me; I was.
‘Look,’ I started, ‘it’s funny that you made up a fantasy career, because I did too.’
His lower jaw swung open, like a trap-door. ‘You what?’
‘I don’t work at Channel 4, same as you don’t have a record shop,’ I said. ‘I’m not even a recruitment consultant. In fact, I don’t have a job at all.’
‘You’re on the dole?’
‘No, I’m a mum. I’m a housewife. Except for the “wife” bit.’
‘You’re a mum? You’ve got a kid?’ His eyes were wide with shock.
‘Kids. Plural. Yeah.’
‘Oh my . . . Sadie! That’s great!’ A second later, he had enveloped me in a hug. ‘God, how brilliant! How old are they? What are they called?’
I laughed, partly in surprise at how well he was taking this, and partly at his genuine enthusiasm and interest. So many people I’d worked with or known had dismissed me as a non-contributor once I’d stepped off the career ship into the choppy waters of motherhood. I’d been slapped by the incredulous ‘You don’t work?’ response so many times that it was wholly unexpected to hear someone other than a family member sound excited about my children.
And so it was that I told him everything – ‘All About Me’, by Sadie Morrison. Not everything, obviously – I didn’t go near the subject of Mark, or indeed the fact that I was carrying a secret changeling baby deep inside me – but pretty much everything else. It didn’t take long, but he was interested. Well, he managed not to slump over the table into a deep sleep anyway, which I took as interest.
When I’d finished the edited but truthful version of my life story, he shook his head. ‘But what I don’t get,’ he said, frowning, ‘is why you had to lie about that? I would be dead proud if I had what you’ve got.’
There was a pause. ‘I thought it sounded boring,’ I admitted in the end.
His nose wrinkled as he frowned; I’d forgotten the way it did that.
‘Boring to who?’ he asked.
I shrugged, feeling like an idiot. ‘Well, everyone. All the class boffins who are mega-successful, you know.’ I swallowed. ‘And you, as well, I suppose. I thought you would find it boring.’
‘Sadie.’ He practically groaned out my name. ‘You daft cow. Come on, let’s drink up and go. Wait till we tell my mum. She’s going to be made up for you.’
She was, as well. Of course she was. This was the woman who had raised four children within five years and who’d run her house like a military boot camp. She clutched me to that bolster of a bosom again with a squeal of joy, followed by a barrage of questions and demands to see baby photos. Only then did she confide drunkenly to me that she’d hoped Danny and I would have a bit of a reunion kiss and make up. ‘What am I going to do with that boy, Sadie?’ she grumbled. ‘I’m half expecting him to turn round one day and announce that he’s gay. I’m telling you, there have been no decent girlfriends like you for a long old year. Oh, no. Standards have fallen since you, Sadie, sweetheart, believe you me.’
You can imagine how much Danny liked that. Although, judging by the good-natured eye-rolling he did at me, he’d heard it all before many, many times.
At the end of the night, he asked me to dance.
‘What, to this? “Seasons in the Sun”?’ I snorted. ‘The Danny Cooper I once knew would have spat upon Terry Jacks.’
‘You’re right,’ he said. He was pretty pissed, I realized. ‘Come outside with me instead.’
‘No chance,’ I laughed. ‘Not while you’ve got that lecherous glint in your eye.’
‘Come on,’ he said, grabbing my arm. ‘For old times’ sake. Come on, Sadie, we’re quits now, aren’t we? We both told each other lies so . . .’
‘Sorry, mate. I’m sober, remember? Not about to forget I’ve got a man at home.’The hypocrisy of my words was like a thorn in my flesh, but Danny was too drunk to notice me wincing.
He grinned. ‘Oh well. You’ve got to try. My mum would have kicked my arse for not trying.’
‘Do you always do everything your mum tells you to?’ I said archly, but I didn’t really mind. It was a neat kind of closure in many ways. It was what I had wanted all those weeks ago, wasn’t it, Danny Cooper back in my life, trying to get his hands in my knickers again? And now he had tried, and I’d turned him down, and it was probably time to go home.
I was feeling decidedly out of place by now anyway. A fish out of water, or rather, judging by the bloodshot eyes and lurching staggers of everyone else in the room, the only fish in the party who wasn’t completely inebriated. And then I was reminded sharply of the reason why I wasn’t completely inebriated when I saw two little girls, not much older than Molly, in their best pink party dresses skipping nimbly around the dancefloor far faster than Terry Jacks had originally intended. I saw them and smiled and felt my hand creep around to my belly. Oh, little one. What was I going to do about you?
Danny saw my hand on my belly, and the half-wistful look in my eye, and then I saw his gaze rise to the glass of orange juice in my hand. PING! Connection being made. ‘Sadie. Are you . . .?’
It was definitely time to go. I did not want to tell him anymore of my secrets. I grabbed my shawl and bag quickly and kissed him on the cheek. ‘So lovely to see you again, Dan. Let’s keep in touch, yeah? And no more bullshit.’
‘No more bullshit,’ he repeated, but his eyes were decidedly thoughtful beneath the alcoholic fog. His hand closed around mine. ‘See you around, Sadie. Take care.’
Seventeen
The next week, everything fell out of its usual place. On Monday morning, Alex departed for a two-day training course in Wolverhampton. Normally I’d have gone into a ‘How am I supposed to manage everything on my own?’ type strop about it, but in the light of the pregnancy shock horror, it was actually quite good timing. At least I would have another few days to grind it out in my head before I had to actually inform him of the news.
The phone rang at ten-ish, just as I was about to take the kids out for the usual Tumble Tots endurance session.
‘Hello, sexy.’
There was only one person in the world who would start a phone conversation with me like that.
‘Hello,’ I said in reply, feeling the usual warm flutter start up inside me at his voice. ‘Listen, can I call you back? I’m just on my way out.’
‘I’ll make it quick then,’ he said. ‘Tonight, I thought—’
‘Oh,’ I interrupted, realizing. ‘I should have called you. I won’t be able to come out tonight. Alex is—’
‘Away, yeah. I know,’ he said, interrupting me right back. ‘Alex is away. So is Julia. So I was wondering how you felt about me staying over?’
‘Eh?’ I looked dumbly towards the hall where I could hear Molly kicking the radiator with impatience. ‘We go NOW,’ she was shouting.
‘Staying the night. In your bed. Waking up together. Hard-on at four o’clock, turning into a half-awake shag.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I get your drift,’ I said. I bit my lip, glanced down at my boobs which seemed even more obviously inflated than ever. He would guess. Surely he knew my body so well he would notice? How would I get away with it, once I had my clothes off ?
‘Great. So shall we say eight o’clock? I’ll bring some wine. We can get a takeaway.’
‘Well . . .’ My resolve faltered. It wasn’t like he was inviting himself round when the kids would be awake or anything. They wouldn’t have to know he was there. I’d chuck him out early, sneak him out secretly before the sun was up and the neighbours could nosey . . . ‘I suppose so,’ I said doubtfully.
‘I’ll see you later then. Can’t wait. Have a nice day.’
‘You too,’ I said.
I put the receiver back, feeling shaken, and wished I’d had more time to think about the idea before agreeing to it. I couldn’t decide if Mark staying over was a sexy, saucy thing to do, or just shady and a bit dirty. Mark in Alex’s bed . . . There was something very seedy about it all. There would definitely be a thorough washing of sheets and pillow cases and everything else on Tuesday morning, put it like that.
The feelings of doubt stayed with me all the way through Tumble Tots and lunch at Anna’s and the walk home. And then, later that afternoon, when I was sorting out the milk for Nathan’s feed, the phone rang again.
I ran to answer it, feeling flustered at the thought that it could be either Alex or Mark. Actually, it was neither.
‘Is that Sadie? Sadie Morrison?’
‘Yes,’ I replied, trying to work out if the voice was familiar or not.
‘This is Paige Kozinski, Michelle McKean’s assistant.’
Paige Kozinski? Michelle McKean? ‘Er . . . yes?’ I prompted hesitantly.
There was a pause. ‘Michelle McKean from Firestarter?’ she added.
Michelle McKean from . . . Oh, no. Was it really the end of the month already? ‘Oh,’ I said. I sat heavily on a chair. ‘Oh dear. This is about the interview, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ Paige was starting to sound irritated by my slowness. ‘Yes, it is. We had you booked in for two-thirty, and I was just ringing to try to find out what had happened to you.’
I rubbed my forehead wearily. It seemed like five years had passed since I’d stupidly written my blagging, lie-stuffed CV and sent it off so light-heartedly. Five years, and a million twists and turns.
‘Ms Morrison?’ Paige said. ‘Are you there? I said—’
‘Yes, I’m here,’ I said. Rude little upstart. ‘I’m sorry. Something has . . . happened. I should have phoned but . . .’ To my horror, I started to cry. ‘I’m not . . . I won’t be able to apply for the job any more.’
Paige, mercifully, was silent for a few seconds. ‘O-K,’ she said finally. The sharpness had left her voice; so had the authority. She’d probably never had a job applicant blub down the phone at her. ‘And you’d like me to tell Michelle . . . what, exactly?’
‘That I’m pregnant,’ I sobbed. The relief at
actually saying the words to somebody, even if it was just a voice down a phone line, was immense. Unfortunately, it was such a relief, I couldn’t then rein myself back once I’d started. ‘I’m pregnant and it’s not a very good time for it to happen.’ My body was shaking with the cries; I could hardly get the words out. ‘I don’t know what to do. Everything’s gone wrong. I—’
‘OK, well, I’ll pass that on to Michelle,’ Paige said hurriedly. Hey, lady, agony aunt is so not in my job description. ‘And . . . er . . . good luck with everything.’
‘Thanks, Paige,’ I said, but the line was already dead. I put my head in my hands and rocked and wept.
‘Mummy?’
There was a small hand tentatively placed on my back. Oh, no. Now I would traumatize my daughter by being a weeping misery in front of her, when everybody knew that mums were meant to be the ones in control of the world.
I couldn’t speak for a few seconds, just reached out an arm and hugged her.
‘Mummy, you crying? You had a bump?’ she said, voice full of concern. ‘Want a chocolate button?’
I tried to pull myself together. ‘Mummy’s fine, sweetheart,’ I told her, my voice breaking on every word. ‘I’m just a bit sad about something but I’ll be all right again in a minute.’
She was kissing my leg. ‘I lub you VERY much,’ she said. ‘I get you Fizz to cuddle. Yeah? Make you all better?’
She skipped off to find her doll while I wiped my eyes and blew my nose. Come on, I told myself. It’ll be OK. I don’t know how yet, but everything will be OK. Then I broke into fresh sobs at the thought of my own daughter comforting me with Fizz and chocolate buttons. What sort of a mother was I?
I heaved my shoulders back. Enough, now. Nathan needs his milk, remember?
Then I glanced back at the phone. There was still one person who I could talk to, tell everything to. I flipped through my address book quickly and dialled. ‘Jemima?’ I said, feeling another burst of relief as her sweet voice answered. ‘Is that you? Have you got a minute?’
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