by Dawn Goodwin
I knew straight away how much juggling that would mean in terms of the kids. ‘Could we make it around lunchtime perhaps? Evenings are difficult for me.’
‘No problem. Let’s meet for lunch at 1 p.m. and talk it over then, my treat of course. I’ll text you the address of a lovely fusion restaurant I like, near to where the course was held. Does that work?’
‘Great, looking forward to it.’
‘Me too.’
‘See you next week.’
‘Until then, Katherine.’
I cut the call, then stared out of the window, my mind whirling and my heart pounding in my ears.
He liked it. He liked it enough to give up his time to mentor me.
Bo pushed his head into my lap and I stroked his long ears tenderly. I could feel myself grinning as I watched miserable-looking mums shuffling past the window, pushchairs and toddlers grasped firmly in their hands. All I felt was a warm glow rising from my toes to my throat as I allowed myself to think about what this might mean for the future. For my future.
*
I put the key in the front door and pushed it open. Stooping to pick up the pile of mostly junk mail on the carpet, I tossed my keys onto the small table in the hall and kicked the door shut.
I unclipped Bo’s lead and smiled as he wriggled and wagged at me, his tail threatening to sweep him off his feet in pure gratitude for our little excursion before he wandered off. I stood for a moment, letting the sounds of silence wash over me. Weak sunlight filtered through the lounge door to my left and snaked across the pale beige carpet. I kicked my shoes into the pile abandoned behind the door and headed into the kitchen at the end of the hallway.
The dining table was covered in Beano magazines, coloured pencils and scraps of paper, the kids leaving a trail of gleeful destruction wherever they went. Over the backs of the chairs were a number of ties flung from around Paul’s neck at the end of each day. Tea towels and empty glasses littered the countertops. But all my eyes could see was my old laptop tucked into the corner of the sideboard, waiting patiently for me to open the lid and carry on writing. My head buzzed with ideas for where to take the narrative next, how to improve it and make it sing, but the house demanded that I tidy and clean before the family returned and made their mark again – and before Paul tutted and asked pointedly what I had been doing all day or if I’d had one of those days again.
I headed over to the fridge and poured myself a tall glass of orange juice, then stood staring out of the patio doors, drink in hand.
‘Here’s to me,’ I said out loud to the drab sky, before taking a big gulp. Rain clouds were building, casting a grey sheath over the footballs and Nerf guns lying abandoned on the lawn outside.
Putting the glass down on the table, I headed into the lounge, grabbing the phone from its cradle as I went. I slumped back against the couch cushions and closed my eyes. The faint sirens and muffled street noises filtering through the windows were familiar and comforting, but I felt restless, buzzing as my mind still whirled with possibility. I knew I was getting ahead of myself, but it felt so good to be excited, to be hopeful about something. I had to tell someone.
Helen’s number went straight to voicemail, but I didn’t leave a message. She was probably at the gym or the hairdresser.
I chewed on a piece of skin sticking up from my cuticle, then sat up straight and pressed another familiar sequence of numbers into the handset. It rang for quite a while, which was to be expected. I could picture my mother heaving her bulk out of the well-worn chair and shuffling towards the phone in her slippers.
Her husky voice finally answered. ‘Hello?’
‘Mam, it’s me.’
‘Oh.’
I was used to the lack of enthusiasm.
‘How are you?’
‘Been better.’
‘How’s your hip?’
‘I’m managing.’
‘I’ve got some news that might cheer you up?’
‘I doubt that.’
‘Er, I… um…’
‘Stop stammering. You sound like a fool.’
I swallowed. This had been a mistake. Talking to Linda Baxter always was, sadly. ‘I’ve started writing again.’
‘What the hell for? I thought you’d given all that up years ago.’
‘Well, I had some time and an idea, so I started writing something. Actually, I went on this writing course and the tutor thinks it’s good. Really good. He’s offered to mentor me to see if I can get it published. He’s a famous author himself, so I think he knows what he’s talking about. This could be huge, Mam.’
‘Waste of bloody time. What does Paul think of it all? Surely you’d be better getting yourself a proper part-time job, Kathy?’
My teeth set on edge. I hated it when she called me that.
She continued. ‘That’s you all over, isn’t it? Always had your head in the clouds. Who’s this writer then? Have I heard of him?’
‘It’s Samuel Morton.’
‘That crime writer?’ She sounded vaguely impressed. ‘So what’s your story about? Oh god, you haven’t gone and written something flowery, have you? I divvent think I could bear any of that literary nonsense.’ My mother’s northern accent grew stronger the more riled she got. The sigh coming down the phone was heavy with impatience.
‘No, I haven’t. It’s a thriller about an affair.’
‘Eeh, I could tell you a thing or two about that.’ She tutted audibly. ‘Mentoring, eh? Doesn’t sound like this Morton fella is gonna dae very much if you ask me. Talk to me when you have a publishing deal, Kathy, or sold the TV rights to that Reese Wetherspoons woman. Now I’m missing the start of my programme.’
I could hear heavy breathing in the background.
‘How’s Bert?’
‘Same as ever. Does nothing but fart. Come and visit him if you really want to know, if you can be bothered.’
‘I will, soon. It’s just that Paul is busy at work at the moment.’ The excuse fell like a dead weight into the silence on the other end of the line. ‘Go on then. Go back to your programme and give Bert a kiss from me. I’ll speak to you soon. Love you.’
But the line was already dead, leaving a pall of disappointment hanging low in the air. Surely she knew what day it was, but she hadn’t said anything. In my head, I knew that in calling her today of all days to tell her my news, I had subconsciously been giving her an opportunity to say something, anything, about that one decision I had made all those years ago that had started everything – my move to London, meeting Paul, Imogen…
My brain refused to take another step. One of the reasons I had started writing again was so that it wouldn’t have to, because in creating another, albeit fictional, world, I was pulling myself out of the one I had created in reality, even if just for a little while.
*
3 October 1990
Aged 10 and a bit
Brilliant day. Got my English homework back. The creative writing one about describing a moment in time. I wrote about eating a chocolate eclair, just ’cos I like them. Anyway, I got 19/20 from Mrs Wallace, who normally doesn’t even like me, and when I told Mam, she read it and loved it! Says I’m a really good writer and that all that reading I do is paying off. She’s told me that before and is always sticking my stuff on the fridge and showing it to Norma next door (who’s probably sick of hearing about it). Maybe I could be a real writer one day – of actual books and stuff. Mam was really proud of me and that made me proud too. She says she’ll show Dad when he gets home, but it’s my bedtime now and he’s not home again. He hasn’t been around much lately, and when he is, there’s always a lot of arguing downstairs. They think I can’t hear them, but I can. Mam keeps mentioning someone called Brenda. I think she works with Dad. I’m not sure what it’s all about, but Mam doesn’t smile as much as she used to, that’s for sure. She’s always angry at something. Anyway, being a writer would be a pretty cool job, wouldn’t it? Imagine, you’d get to write your own stories all day, maybe i
n your pyjamas! Eating eclairs!! Brill! Oh, I can hear Mam coming up the stairs. I better get to sleep.
4
I rushed out of Covent Garden tube station, aware that I was running ten minutes late after my train into Waterloo was delayed. Where I lived in Hampton Hill wasn’t far out of central London, but on days like today, with signal failures and leaves on the track, it would’ve been quicker to drive if I’d had the guts to tackle London traffic and the wherewithal to find parking.
I’d agonised over what to wear ever since I had received Sam’s text giving me directions to a fusion restaurant called Coriander near to Covent Garden. Not my usual neck of the woods, this far out of suburbia, but sometimes you had to step outside your comfort zone in order to make a change, right?
The idea that I was finally on the verge of something potentially life-changing still made me buzz, but I kept telling myself to play it cool, don’t appear too eager, keep my hopes in check.
In preparation, and so that there’d be no nasty surprises, I’d looked up the menu of the restaurant online that morning and checked out the prices – even though Sam had said it would be his treat. I only had my monthly housekeeping allowance and I didn’t want to have to ask Paul for extra. He needed to believe that this wouldn’t impact him in any way if I was going to be able to carry on with it. Not that we couldn’t afford it; he just liked us to live as frugally as possible and save for retirement. He’d always been sensible that way, just like his father before him, which had meant that his parents were minted before they died. A pity that they had never got to spend their hard-saved money before the end.
The idea of fusion food was alien to me, apparently lots of strange dishes with difficult to pronounce ingredients and not a pasta pesto or chicken nugget in sight. The most exotic thing I had in my daily diet was halloumi, but I could chalk all of this up to adding to my world knowledge. It would all be useful in a plot one day.
As I walked at pace, I could feel the light floral material of the dress I had chosen sticking to my legs with static. Maybe it was the wrong choice after all. It dated back to my teaching days, light enough that I could move freely in the nursery but long enough that it wasn’t showing too much leg, and the floral pattern had seemed a perfect match for today, teamed with my old and bruised leather jacket that Paul hated. But now I worried that the dress was making me look dowdy and mumsy rather than edgy and cool.
Well, at least I didn’t have to worry about a muffin top or bulging belly. All those dog walks with Bo and trips to the gym had kept all of that in check and I was careful to not let things slip as I got older. Besides, Paul would tell me if I did. On cue, my stomach grumbled, not helped by the greasy aromas of the fast-food shop I was passing.
A light drizzle was coating everything in a film of grimy damp. I had found an umbrella in the depths of my bag, but one of the spokes had snapped, making it tilt at an unnatural angle so that I could feel the drizzle spitting at my face.
‘Shit,’ I muttered.
Trotting as best I could in the black strappy heels I had chosen, I dashed across the street towards the restaurant, skipping over puddles as I went. I paused in the doorway to catch my breath, calm my flaming cheeks and slow my nervous pulse.
I caught a glimpse of Sam through the glass door. He was staring at his phone, looking relaxed and in control while sipping on a crystal tumbler of what looked like whisky. In contrast, my face reflected back at me in the door looked wide-eyed and manic. I took another deep breath to steady myself and pushed through the door, attempting to exude, on the outside at least, a similar calm to him, even if my heart was hammering out a reggae beat on the inside.
Cool and calm… cool and calm…
A waiter approached with intent, but I smiled politely and indicated where Sam was sitting before weaving through the tables towards him. He had not looked up from his phone as yet. I could see his scalp through his salt-and-pepper hair, perhaps not as lustrous as I had originally thought, but he certainly hid it better than Paul did. It was a little imperfection and I found it endearing, making him seem less intimidating.
‘Sam, how lovely to see you again.’
He raised his gaze to me and immediately broke into a smile of his own, lines wrinkling around his eyes as he got to his feet.
‘Katherine, you look lovely.’ There was that butterscotch voice.
Get a bloody grip, Katherine. He’s just a man – and you’re both married.
He came around the table to give me a brief, airy kiss on the cheek, before indicating the seat opposite him with an outstretched hand.
I placed my handbag under my chair and shrugged out of my damp coat. The hovering waiter whisked it away instantly.
‘So,’ Sam said as I sat down. ‘Something to drink?’
‘White wine would be lovely, thank you.’ How uncharacteristically brazen of me.
I crossed my legs under the table and managed to crack my knee on the leg, bringing sudden tears to the corners of my eyes. I blinked them away as he consulted the wine menu, then summoned the waiter and ordered a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.
‘This rain – it’s miserable, isn’t it?’ I said.
Oh God, have I really opened with that?
‘Quite.’ He sat back in his chair and looked at me in amusement. He had a way of sweeping his eyes over my face that made me feel like he was studying me, as though trying to see into my deepest corners and then filing away his discoveries. I felt unsettled and twitchy, like a specimen under a microscope, but thrilled at being worthy of such interest all the same.
I looked away, taking in the people around me and the restaurant itself for the first time. ‘This looks nice.’
There was an informal air about the place, but classy, with immaculate white tablecloths and well-spaced tables. It looked to be full to capacity already and there was a resonant hum of conversation filling the air, muted at a polite volume.
Sam looked around too. ‘It’s a favourite of mine, I have to say. There is always something different on the menu. So, tell me where you’re at with your novel.’
His directness unnerved me even more. I had expected a bit more chit-chat before getting down to business. But that was okay. I knew where I stood with talking shop. It was small talk that I struggled with, since my only go-to topics tended to be effective lice treatments and ways to hide vegetables in pasta sauces – and I didn’t think he’d appreciate that kind of chat.
‘Um, well… I’m about two thirds of the way into the first draft now. I have the overall idea – two people from different backgrounds meet in unlikely circumstances and begin an affair that is doomed to failure – but it’s constantly evolving and I’m not entirely sure where it will end, but the bones of it are there, I guess.’
‘Okay, that’s a good place to start.’ He sat forward again and I was conscious of his hands resting millimetres from mine. ‘There are—’
The waiter appeared at his elbow, placed a basket of bread rolls next to us and began to open a bottle of wine. He poured a miniscule measure into a glass and offered it to Sam to taste. Sam raised the wineglass to his nose, swirled the pale gold liquid, took a sip, considered it, oozing class and poise, then indicated his approval. I felt a giggle building in my throat, along with an urge to tell him to just pour it so that I could neck the first one to numb my butterflies into submission. I coughed my amusement into my hand.
The smell of the freshly baked rolls was teasing and I started salivating to the background tune of my grumbling stomach.
As the waiter shuffled away, Sam continued. ‘There are two kinds of writers, in my experience: those that plan every plot detail, character trait and figurative image; and those that let the idea reveal itself through the creative process. In my opinion, the former have the easier task – sticking to a plan means you have a map to follow and an end in sight. The latter have to rely on their creative energy and trust that it will see them through to the end. However, I think a novel stemming purely from the
gut and the heart can be a better, more raw and honest read.’
‘So I shouldn’t beat myself up that I don’t have a clue what’s going to happen at the end?’
I couldn’t resist any longer and reached out for a bread roll. Steam escaped as I broke it in half and slathered butter liberally on each side.
‘Not at all! That’s how I wrote Muses and Starlings.’ He drained his remaining whisky, all the while watching me gobbling the bread over the rim of his glass. There was that look again, like he was wondering what I tasted like. ‘What is your motivation for it? Where did the idea stem from? Those are more important questions.’
I forced myself to slow down on the bread, nerves making me greedy. ‘Well, I guess it’s loosely based on the circumstances in which I met my husband. Not that we had an affair or anything…’
I grabbed at my wineglass a little too forcefully. Some of the wine dribbled over the rim.
The waiter appeared again, subtle as ever, notepad in hand. ‘Excuse me, Mr Morton, ma’am.’ He nodded at each of us in turn. I raised my eyebrows. Clearly Sam came here often if he was known by name. ‘The specials today are wild mushroom ravioli to start, with a butternut, pine nut and lemongrass butter, and for mains a fillet of seabass in ginger and soy, served with an artichoke purée and sautéed Asian greens.’
‘Excellent!’ Sam exclaimed with delight. He looked at me expectantly. ‘I’m rather hungry, I have to say. A starter and a main for me today. Katherine, can I interest you in a starter? And I highly recommend the seabass. I’ve had it before and it is delightful.’
Taking a sip of wine, I took a moment to consider the menu in front of me. It wasn’t quite the same as the one on the website and the dish I had prepped myself to order wasn’t listed. A panic of social ineptitude tripped over me and I felt my throat constrict. I scanned the starters quickly, feeling pressured, and my eyes fell on a beetroot and goat’s cheese salad. Nothing unusual or offensive there. ‘The beetroot to start please, followed by your special, the seabass. Thank you.’ I set the menu aside.