The Other Us

by Fiona Harper

  I look into his eyes. ‘Really?’

  He laughs. ‘Yes, really.’

  I don’t remember afterwards what I did first, kiss him or answer him – yes, of course – but I know I did both at some point. There are cheers from around the table, the sound of more champagne corks popping and laughter, but I hardly notice anything. All I can look at is Jude.

  I did it, I think to myself, as it all continues on around me. Whatever this whole jumping from life to life thing was supposed accomplish, I must have done the right thing, because now I’m being rewarded.

  I have the man I want, the life I want, and not only has he asked me to marry him but we’re going to have a baby too! I just don’t see how my life could get any better.

  Thank you, I whisper silently into the night sky, letting my words drift upwards along with the sparks from the bonfire. Whoever you are and whatever you are, thank you. I won’t waste this. I promise.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  Even when we get back to London I can’t stop smiling. I take a tour of my own house, grinning like a maniac, because now I know it’s really mine. For keeps. I hadn’t realised that up until now I’d been holding onto what I had in each life so lightly, just in case it got snatched away from me.

  However, as the days go on I wonder if I jinxed my professional life by saying to Jude on the catamaran that I wasn’t enjoying it as much as I used to. I can’t seem to get excited about it as much any more, not even doing my favourite bit – mood boards.

  I used to love pulling together the colours and swatches, scouring magazines and catalogues for the right pictures, but now it’s all feeling a bit ‘paint by numbers’. I’m just collecting and arranging other people’s creations rather than coming up with any of my own.

  And there’s another strange side-effect too.

  I don’t realise I’m doing it until Jude asks me about it one day. We’re at home. I’m watching You’ve Got Mail, Jude is going through some last-minute details for a property viewing the next day. When he finishes, he comes and sits beside me. I don’t bother turning the DVD off – romcoms aren’t really Jude’s thing – because I know even if he sits here staring at the screen he won’t really be watching. His mind will still be churning on work: how to make things bigger, brighter, more successful. I love him for his energy, but every now and then I find myself wishing he had an ‘off’ switch. You know, just something small at the base of his skull I could flip, and then I’ll find out what he looks like when he really, truly relaxes.

  He glances at Meg Ryan on screen, looking all adorable as she decides to fight back against the big bad Tom Hanks, then reaches for the newspaper, which is lying on the end of the sofa. When he picks it up, he laughs. ‘You’ve done it again,’ he says. ‘It’s getting to be some kind of disease!’

  I pause the DVD and look across at him. ‘What?’

  ‘This!’ he says, tapping the paper, and that’s when I notice it, the little doodle in the margin at the bottom near the crossword. I take the paper from him and give it a good look. I do remember having a go at the crossword earlier, but I don’t remember drawing this, at least, not until I see it again. It’s a quick sketch in blue biro – a hilltop with three stick figure boys in various poses. Or maybe it’s better described as one boy, who’s splintered into three.

  ‘You’ve been doing them everywhere!’ Jude tells me, laughing. ‘At the office, on the telephone pad in the hall. The pages of your Filofax are littered with them.’

  I tear my gaze away from the drawing. ‘I suppose I have,’ I say. I can picture them now. I just hadn’t realised there’d been so many.

  ‘What is it?’ he asks as he picks up the same biro I’d discarded earlier and carries on with the crossword.

  ‘They’re just doodles,’ I say.

  ‘I know that! I was just wondering if there was a reason you’re drawing them over and over again. Is it something for a client? Because it’s not the kind of thing you usually come up with – unless it’s for a child’s room?’

  I shake my head. ‘It’s nothing. They’re nothing.’ And if there is a reason I’m drawing them over and over, I’m not sure it’s anything either Jude or I want to explore. It’s a bleed-over from my other life, the one I’m supposed to have firmly closed the door on.

  Over the next few days, I keep discovering them. Jude was right: they’re everywhere. All subtly different, some a refinement on the original I scribbled for Dan that last night before I jumped, some new ones, the boys in varying stances.

  I don’t like it at first. I feel as if all these tiny men are following me around, watching me. I feel as if their scratchy fingers might reach out and drag me back to where they came from, and I don’t want that, but eventually I make peace with them, because I decide what they are.

  They’re not yearnings for a life left behind; they’re my creative spirit punching through. I miss drawing, I realise. That’s all it is. And isn’t this what I told Jude about on the catamaran?

  All I need to do now is listen to what my subconscious is trying to tell me, follow the clues and work out what I want to create. I pick up a piece of paper and a pen and I deliberately draw another one. In this one all three boys are defiant, each with their own personality and body language. I smile at the little figures when I’ve finished. They’re under my control now. I am their god, after all.

  So why do I see the tilt of challenge in the middle one’s eyes as I look away? Why do I still feel he’s daring me to do something I’m afraid of?

  A week after we’ve been back home my period starts. It happens at work, in the offices we share in Mayfair. We have a smart white townhouse with black iron railings, chosen and decorated to remind clients of the types of homes we’d like to sell them. My office is up on the top floor – I like to look out over the rooftops and watch the city go about its business when I’m thinking – and I go down to Jude’s office, which takes up the back of the ground floor, overlooking the courtyard garden, to break it to him.

  ‘You must be psychic,’ he says when I walk through his office door. ‘I was going to ask you to come down. I’ve got exciting news!’

  Jude always asks me to come down to him, so I’m glad the building has a lift. For some reason he prefers the clean lines and white matte walls of his office to my more bohemian space upstairs. Not only am I knee-deep in swatches and fabric samples, but I’ve developed a serious shopping habit on behalf of my clients. One whole room in my suite is full of gorgeous bits and pieces I’ve sourced from all over Europe.

  ‘You know the film star, Tobias Thornton?’ he says.

  I nod. Of course I do. Everyone’s seen his blockbuster action films. Back in my original life he’s getting a bit past it, looking a bit like he’s been living too well to really pull off being an action hero, but he’s at the height of his fame now in the early noughties.

  ‘Well, he owns Montford House in Cheshire and he’s just called me because he’s looking to put it on the market. I’ve been invited to go up there this weekend and check it out.’ He grins at me. ‘This is big, Meg! I reckon the asking price could be at least twenty million. Think of the commission on that!’

  He looks at me, waiting for me to burst with pride, to squeal and jump and throw my arms around him. I don’t jump or squeal but I do wind my arms around his neck and hug him tight. ‘I’m so proud of you,’ I whisper, because it’s true, and then I pull back. ‘This weekend?’ I ask. ‘As in, tomorrow?’

  He nods. ‘Tonight actually. He wants to meet at nine sharp in the morning and it’s at least a four-hour drive. I think it’s better if we go up this evening and stay over.’

  ‘We?’ I ask hoarsely.

  ‘Of course. I told him all about your success at staging houses – there’s a whole room in leopard-print you’re really going to have to work your magic on – so I thought we’d make a weekend of it. He’s mentioned going shooting on the Sunday too, to get a real feel for the estate.’

  I can’t hold i
t in any longer. I have to tell him my news. When I’ve finished he rubs my back and gives me an encouraging smile. ‘It’s not the end of the world,’ he says. ‘There’s always next month.’

  I know he’s trying to make me feel better, but it sounded as if he was talking about a monthly raffle or something. I’m extra-gutted, because I’d half convinced myself our trip to the Caribbean had been so wonderful that I’d have to conceive there. It was the right time, wasn’t it? I’m in this life now, fully committed. Everything’s in place. So why isn’t it happening?

  ‘Maybe this Thornton thing couldn’t have come at a better time?’ he says. ‘It’ll take your mind off things.’

  ‘Do you mind if I don’t? I really don’t feel up to anything this weekend. Certainly not being bright and sparkly company. I’d only be a liability.’

  ‘But I need you, Meg. We always work best as a team, don’t you think?’

  I nod. He’s right. We are a good team. A brilliant team, professionally. But it doesn’t change the fact that all I want to do right now is curl up in a ball and hide. I still haven’t come to grips with the fact I’m not pregnant yet. I know it’s stupid. I know everything Jude has said is true – there is always next month, and the month after that and the month after that – but somehow it feels as every time I start to bleed that I’m having a miscarriage, in some way that I’m losing Billy and Sophie all over again.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I just can’t face it.’

  For a moment it looks as if he’s going to try and persuade me, but then he kisses me on the forehead. ‘What am I going to say?’ he murmurs as he looks into my eyes.

  ‘Whatever I want?’

  He nods. ‘Always.’

  Not quite always I think, later that evening, when I watch him get into his car and head for the M40, because what I really wanted was to have my husband-to-be here with me tonight. I really don’t want to rattle round this big old house on my own, thinking about how empty it feels with no children to fill it.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  Twenty-four hours later, I’m standing outside Dan and Becca’s Victorian terrace in Swanham. I’d kind of put off calling her since I got home from Flamingo Island, unsure how she’d react to my big news, but I picked up the phone yesterday night when I was feeling in need of some company and as soon as she heard I was on my own for the weekend, she insisted I come over for dinner. I didn’t need to be asked twice.

  ‘Look at that tan!’ she exclaims when she opens the door and pulls me into a hug. ‘You look fantastic! I bet ten days in paradise did you the world of good.’

  I promptly burst into tears. Damn those hormones, I think, and it makes me feel even worse, because I’d much rather it was pregnancy hormones making me screwy rather than just plain old period ones.

  Becca’s face crumples in concern. ‘Maggie,’ she says softly. She never has got used to calling me Meg. ‘What’s wrong?’

  I manage to hiccup, snort and laugh at the same time. ‘Actually,’ I say, and pause to do a large sniff, ‘I’ve got good news!’ I wave my left hand at her, which is now adorned with the most massive diamond. ‘I’m engaged,’ I say. ‘Jude asked me to marry him.’

  She stutters a bit before she manages to congratulate me. ‘And you’re happy about it?’

  I nod and she pulls me into a hug. ‘Then why are you crying, you daft thing?’ she whispers as she holds me tight, and the rest of the story comes out.

  She leads me into the kitchen-diner that makes up the back end of the house. ‘I’m not going to say anything trite, like ‘It’ll happen eventually’, or ‘You’re still young,’ she says. ‘I know how much I wanted to punch people after the miscarriage when they trotted out that kind of crap.’

  I almost let out a gasp, but I manage to disguise it as another sniff. Becca had a miscarriage? When? It must have happened sometime in the last year, after I left Dan but before I jumped to Flamingo Island.

  As if summoned by my thoughts, I hear Dan coming down the stairs and when I catch a glimpse of him through the open kitchen door, and my stomach does a tiny flip. It catches me by surprise.

  I’m just nervous, I tell myself. It’s always been a bit weird seeing him with Becca and we left each other on good terms this time. It’s understandable I’m having warm feelings towards him.

  Becca opens the oven to check on the roast chicken. I smell thyme and lemon and I can see red onions sitting in the pan. It’s my roast chicken. The one I gave Becca the recipe for. Only I haven’t cooked it in years, so I suppose it’s hers now.

  Dan appears at that moment. ‘Lovely you could make it,’ he says to me and leans in to give me a kiss on the cheek, demonstrating quite clearly that he is one hundred per cent completely over me. He wouldn’t have got so close if he wasn’t.

  That sobers me up. Come on, Maggie. Get your two lives sorted into the right boxes. You’ve put the lid on that one, left it behind. I take a deep breath and do just that. It’s ripples from my other life, that’s all. Sooner or later they’ll flatten out and disappear altogether.

  After that I’m OK. We sit down and have a glass of wine before dinner.

  ‘I’m so glad you came,’ Becca says. ‘It feels as if we haven’t seen you for ages.’

  I nod. I must have been very busy in this life before I jumped back into it again. There can’t be any other reason for me staying away.

  ‘Dan and I wanted to have you round like this, just to say thank you for dropping everything to be with me when we lost the baby.’

  I look at my best friend. She is the bravest woman I know, always facing things straight on, but I hear the catch in her voice as she says the last word. Dan rubs the small of her back with his hand, a tiny attentive but almost absent-minded gesture. I can see he’s got all protective over her since it happened.

  ‘That’s what best friends do,’ I say, and my voice isn’t entirely scratch-free.

  After that I find I can look Dan in the eye properly. By showing such tenderness to Becca, he has firmly stamped himself as ‘Not My Dan’. He’s hers. From now on he will always be hers. The reality of that starts to seep into my soul.

  Dinner is easy. We eat, we drink, we chat and laugh. I ask Dan about his books and I’m thrilled to learn he’s got an agent now. Not the one he mentioned at the dinner party, or even the same one he met in Charing Cross, but another one. Not as high-profile, maybe, but she’s young and hungry and he’s really excited about what’s going to happen next. He’s completely rewritten his time-travelling story, adding more time periods and has planned the next two books in the series. The new agent is sending it out in a couple of weeks, after he’s done a few last ‘tweaks’.

  When I think of the Dan I left behind in my other life, I know this one has already learned the lessons that one was beginning to grasp. I know he doesn’t hide himself, or the truth about who he is, from his wife. He knows how to be open and supportive and, as a result, he and Becca have that weird telepathy my grandparents had. They’re meshed. I’m happy to see they’ve succeeded where Dan and I failed, because it confirms I chose the right life, however hard it was to leave the other one behind just as it was starting to get better.

  When we’ve finished dessert and had coffee, Dan makes Becca sit down and insists he will clear up after all the hard work she’s done. I smile. I remember that. I might have moaned about his coat and shoes – which are still a trip-hazard in this new hallway, I might add – but he was always very good at sharing the housework. Jude, in comparison, seems to have forgotten he wasn’t born with a housekeeper to trail around after him. Ours only comes three days a week, so the rest of the time it’s me who clears up his dirty mugs or throws his pants in the washing basket.

  I feel a familiar twinge of dissatisfaction and I stop myself. No. Went down that path with Dan. Not going down it with Jude. I’ve learned my lesson on that front. I won’t let that tiny seed of resentment plant itself. However, I know that if I ignore what’s bothering me, I’ll water
that seed anyway, so I decide to bring it up – calmly, reasonably – when I get back home. That settled in my mind, I get up and help Dan stack the dishes, then he washes while I dry.

  We talk about books and drawing and music as we work, laughing about some of our contemporaries’ stupid antics in college, while carefully sidestepping around any mention of our relationship. Becca sits back with a glass of red wine and throws the odd comment in from the dining table.

  Dan and I remind me of how Becca and Dan used to be in my other life. Friends. I smile to myself as I put the last saucer away. I like it like this. I like it very much.

  But then I go and do something stupid.

  Maybe it’s because of the wine. Maybe it’s because with alcohol the edges of my two lives get less rigid, allowing a little bit of osmosis, but when I’ve finished putting the last of the crockery away, and Dan and I are having a good-natured tiff about whether Die Hard is the best action movie of all time, I walk up to him and slide my arm round his waist and rest my head on his shoulder, just as I might have done in the life I’ve left behind.

  I realise the instant I’ve done it it’s wrong. I feel Dan stiffen, and Becca gives me an odd look. I try and save myself by pretending I did it because I’m feeling a bit wobbly on my feet because I’m squiffy, and I think I just about get away with it.

  We all act normal after that, but something has shifted in the atmosphere. I’ve ruined it, so I excuse myself and ring for a cab to take me home. I feel the need to be back in my own house, my own life, as soon as possible.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  ‘Meg? What the hell are you doing?’

  Jude finds me in the garden of our Notting Hill house. I’m dressed in a pair of overalls, my hair is tied up in a scarf and there are spots of paint across my cheeks. I look down at my handiwork. ‘I’m painting a chair. What does it look like?’