by Ber Carroll
‘How do you know it’s not just a crush you’ve held onto over the years?’ she fretted. ‘You were very vulnerable when you were at university. The professor was someone you looked up to, idolised . . .’
Jodi shrugged. ‘I know there’s more to it than that, Mum.’
Shirley was drinking herbal tea; her yoga teacher had recommended that she lay off the cappuccinos. Privately, Jodi thought that a good dose of caffeine would have taken the edge off her mother’s worries.
‘I’m very concerned about this relationship of yours,’ Shirley stated. ‘And so is Grandma.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Jodi shrugged again. ‘I’m a big girl. I know what I’m doing.’
‘But do you?’ Shirley enquired heatedly, and some of the other patrons glanced their way. ‘Do you really know what you’re doing? Have you discussed what you want from life with the professor –’
‘James,’ Jodi corrected.
‘James,’ Shirley repeated. ‘He’s almost the same age as me, darling. He’s had his family. He won’t want to do it all again.’
‘Hold your horses, Mum,’ Jodi laughed. ‘You’re getting ahead of yourself with all this family talk . . .’
‘You need to discuss these things now,’ Shirley persisted. ‘Other wise, it can become a big issue later on.’
Jodi drained her cup of coffee. ‘Mum, if James and I ever get to that point, then I’m sure we’ll work it out. Now, I want to pop over to the surf club to see if Sue is around. Are you coming?’
Shirley, still clearly unhappy, slid her sunglasses down from the top of her head and over her eyes. ‘I just don’t want you to make bad choices like I did . . . Still, it’s your life . . .’
They got up from the table. They made a striking pair, with their blonde flyaway hair and svelte figures. On closer inspection, their faces had the same round shape and their eyes were the softest brown, although Shirley’s were now hidden behind her sunglasses. One of the diners, who had overheard their conversation, idly wondered whether the young woman was fated to make the same mistakes as her mother.
Chapter 31
Three months later
Jodi’s copy of the bank’s annual report came in the mail. It was a high-quality production, with vibrant pictures to relieve the thick glossy print. Jodi’s photograph was on page six. She looked thoughtful, as the photographer had suggested, and every inch the successful businesswoman, but there was a hint of forlornness beneath her poise. Needless to say, the photograph had been taken before James came back into her life.
Jodi read the report from cover to cover. There was nothing in there that she didn’t already know, but she thought it worthwhile to refresh her memory. Key clients across the region would also receive a copy of the report. They would have questions, particularly when they saw the profit and bonus figures. They would feel that the bank could comfortably afford to reduce its commission and handling fees. It was Jodi’s job to convince them otherwise.
When Jodi finished with the report, she poured herself a glass of iced water and went out to the balcony. She stood at the railing and looked down. Little black dots, people, moved industriously along the pavement, like a line of busy ants. Jodi’s apartment was thirty-two floors above ground level. She looked back up, a sense of vertigo wobbling her insides. At eye level, she was surrounded by other apartment towers, tall and narrow, mostly white in colour. Singapore was famously short on accommodation space. It was also short on air. Jodi could only ever stay out on the balcony for short periods of time. After a while, the mugginess made her feel as though she couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t say why, but she was a lot more forgiving of Singapore’s shortcomings than she ever had been of London’s.
As Jodi sipped her drink, she heard the phone start to ring: James.
She ran back inside and was breathless when she picked it up.
‘Good morning from chilly London.’
‘Good afternoon from sunny Singapore.’
They delivered their greetings in their most formal tones: the weather man and woman; their own little act.
‘How are you?’ asked James in his normal voice, which was still rather formal.
‘Good. Enjoying the weekend.’
‘Have you been anywhere today?’
‘No. I’ve been reading the annual report. Riveting stuff. Especially my photograph on page six.’
‘You’re in the annual report? Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you send me a copy?’
‘Why?’
‘So I can see you. Be proud of you.’
‘Okay.’ Jodi’s smile was a little bashful, but he couldn’t see. ‘What’s happening with you?’
‘Well, I just woke up. You were my first thought. So I rang.’
Jodi could see him in bed: his hair ruffled and eyes sleepy; his torso bare and sprinkled with dark hair. How she’d love to be lying next to him. To have his hands run over her body. To feel his lips follow in the path of his hands.
‘Jodi? Are you there?’
‘Yes, still here,’ she murmured. ‘Just thinking of you in bed.’
‘Good night from muggy Singapore.’
‘Good afternoon from soggy London.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Actually, I’m running late for an important meeting . . .’
Jodi’s face fell. But he couldn’t see, of course. ‘Oh.’
‘Sorry,’ he sighed. ‘I didn’t mean to be so abrupt. What are you doing?’
‘Just getting ready to turn in.’
‘I’ll call you later, okay?’
Later meant early the next morning when she was rushing for work. Later meant his midnight, when he wanted the day to be over.
‘Bye, James. Good luck with the meeting.’
Jodi hung up the phone and, instead of getting into bed, sat on the side, thinking. Sometimes their phone calls worked brilliantly, a connection of minds and moods defying the thousands of kilometres between them. On those occasions it didn’t matter as much that they couldn’t touch, because the closeness was there in other ways. But sometimes it didn’t work so well and then it was never more obvious how far apart they were: different hemispheres, different time zones, different stages of life. That was when touch became so vital: it could bridge the bad mood, the hard day, whatever it was that was preventing the connection. She could briefly stroke his face, peck his lips, or give him a loving look as she said, ‘Good luck with the meeting’. Instead, she was left with her hands tied, helplessly distant, and frustratingly unable to carry out the small action that was needed to end the conversation on the right note.
With a discontented sigh, Jodi flicked the light switch and slid between the light cotton covers of the bed. The next few months were going to be extremely busy. She had a lot of travel, some new clients and a significant product launch on her agenda. Still, she mentally tried to find a crack in her diary so she could get over to London to see James. Maybe October, two months away. Would they last until then? Without a single touch? Without a bridge?
‘Goodnight from rainy London.’
Jodi blinked at the digital clock next to her bed: 4 am.
‘Good middle-of-the-night from too-dark-to-tell-the-weather-yet Singapore.’
‘Sorry. I just needed to hear your voice, to talk to you.’
Jodi sat up in the bed and rubbed the grogginess from her eyes with no inkling of the bombshell that was coming her way.
‘This isn’t working, is it, Jodi?’
She stopped mid-yawn, suddenly wide awake. What was he saying? That it was all too hard?
With a giveaway waver in her voice, she rushed in before he could say anything further. ‘I think I can get some time off in October. Maybe four or five days . . .’
Her big plan was met with silence. Tears pricked her eyes. For the first time she was glad he couldn’t see.
‘I don’t think four or five days will solve the problem, Jodi.’
So it was over. Th
ey hadn’t made the distance. Their love wasn’t so special or enduring after all. She let the tears fall, too devastated to keep them back.
‘Don’t cry’, she heard him say from far away. ‘I’m obviously not being very clear about what I want – I want us to be together.’ She wiped the wetness from her face and tried to listen to what he was saying. ‘Will you come to live in London, Jodi? Will you live with me?’
In a matter of seconds, she swung from utter despair to extraordinary joy. It wasn’t over between them. She’d assumed the worst instead of trusting her instincts: she and James were right together, they were meant to be.
But it was the second time in her life that a man had asked her to go to London. The first time hadn’t ended happily. Would the odds be improved a second time round? Could she return with a new love and a new optimism and forget the past?
‘I can’t answer straight away, James. I need to think about it carefully. My heart says yes, though.’
Two Paths Crossing
Chapter 32
Sarah, Dublin, 2001
The Naos Road was more like a parking lot than a main road. Again. A helicopter hovered overhead. Sarah wished that she was in it. How long would a chopper take to fly down to Cork? An hour? Less? How much would it cost? Maybe she should charter one!
She was sick and tired of this commuting, of pretending that she lived on the farm in Cork when in fact she spent most of the week in Dublin. Husband in Cork. Job in Dublin. Never the twain shall meet.
Her fingers drummed the steering wheel. Anxiety bubbled in her stomach. It was making its presence felt a lot more often these days. She was denying it, though. She’d been off the antidepressants for two years. She couldn’t go back on them. No way. The drugs would not help the baby-making business one little bit.
Three years they’d been trying for a baby. Right from the word go, really. How many pregnancy tests had she used up? At the start Tim would wait anxiously outside the bathroom. Now she didn’t even tell him when she did the tests. Blue line? Chuck it in the bin. Another month gone down the drain.
Tim was talking about IVF now. He had been casual at first.
‘Don’t worry, Sarah. If it comes to it we can go down the IVF route.’
In his mind, it must have ‘come to it’ because he was talking about it a lot more often now.
Sarah resisted the idea.
Too invasive. Too contrived. If it can’t happen naturally . . .
But he had counterarguments.
Why not try? We can handle a few blood tests and a short stay in hospital, can’t we? Look at the success rate, Sarah!
Sarah understood where he was coming from. But there was one big problem: Tim didn’t know the full facts. He didn’t know about the abortion. He didn’t know that she’d suffered bad cramping afterwards. Or that she hadn’t gone back for her six-week check-up after the operation.
Sarah didn’t want to go through with IVF for two reasons. First of all, she’d be obliged to tell the consulting doctor about the abortion and it was inevitable that Tim would find out too. He would be awfully, and justifiably, hurt and angry. He hated deceit of any form. Secondly, Tim aside, Sarah knew in her heart of hearts that IVF wouldn’t work. She was sterile. She knew this fact instinctively and didn’t need it confirmed by any doctor. Three years of trying to fall pregnant was proof enough. It was her punishment for aborting the baby. God didn’t allow people to pick and chose when it was convenient to have children. She’d had her time. It wouldn’t come again.
Sarah saw the lights change up ahead and edged her car forward until she was just a whisker away from the bumper of the car in front.
Come on. Move! Move!
But the lights changed back to red without a single car getting through.
Damn! Damn! Damn!
She was trapped in this dreadful traffic. And trapped by a decision she’d made when she was too young and scared to understand how far-reaching its consequences would be.
In the end, the journey to Cork took close to four and a half hours. Sarah exited the main road and negotiated the narrow country roads before turning into the gravelled driveway of the farm. The sensor lights switched on and illuminated the way.
Tim came out the front door as she got out of the car. He wore a khaki T-shirt and shorts. His feet were bare and his face stubbled. She noted, in a tired way, that he looked good: trim, healthy and relaxed, but for the concerned expression on his face. Gently, he kissed her forehead and hugged her to him. Her anxiety abated with the familiar earthy smell of him and the cocoon provided by his arms.
‘The traffic was horrendous,’ she told him.
‘I guessed as much.’
He kissed her forehead again before breaking away. Then he took her bag from the boot of the car. He always carried her bag in. Just as he always had a light supper ready on the table. Once she’d eaten, he would massage her tired shoulders while she lay face down on the lounge. Then he’d make love to her. It was Sarah’s favourite part of the week: her homecoming.
Life on the farm started early, even on weekends. The first sounds were that of birds hopping along the roof tiles. Their feet ran lightly along, not too disturbing at all, until they emitted an ear-piercing squawk on take-off.
Sarah cursed them and squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to wake up just yet. She lay curled into Tim’s naked body. One of his hands loosely cupped her breast. She suspected he wasn’t fully asleep either and soon that hand would start stroking her nipple. Or his lips would brush against the back of her neck. Or he’d do any one of the number of things he did to initiate their lovemaking. She felt anticipation stir within her, awakening her even more.
The commuting aside, her weekends with Tim were wonderful, a precious two days and three nights. Tim never complained that it wasn’t enough. He understood how she felt about her job. With his support, her career had gone from strength to strength and she was now in charge of the entire Irish subsidiary. As general manager the breadth of her role ranged from internal finances to marketing strategies, and from staff initiatives to liaison with the New York head office. Denise, her old mentor, was now the CEO of the bank and in charge of worldwide operations. Sarah couldn’t have asked for a better boss. The bank was growing aggressively and it was a thrill to be at the helm alongside Denise.
The only downside was that the day-to-day trading was no longer her direct responsibility. Sarah missed it and was often lured away from her office to the buzz of the trading floor. She’d nose out whatever big deals or calamities were going down and become directly involved for long enough to give her the adrenalin fix she needed, then she would return to her office and work with renewed vigour.
On the whole, she loved her job. And she loved her husband, whose hand had slipped from her breast and was provocatively edging its way between her legs. Sarah was very sure that her anxiety would go away of its own accord if she could solve the two problems that were marring her happiness: finding a faster means of getting up and down to Cork, and conceiving a baby.
Sarah eventually went downstairs at nine. She opened the fridge. It was well stocked with dairy produce, fresh vegetables and meat. A local woman, Joanne, came two days a week to clean, do the laundry and buy groceries. With her help, Sarah was free to spend the entire weekend with Tim. She much preferred to be outside helping him with the animals or crops, than inside catching up on a week’s worth of household chores.
Sarah drew out a carton of eggs from the fridge. She cracked four into a jug and whisked until they were smooth. She chopped up some spinach and leg ham and threw them into the mix. Tim loved her omelettes.
Breakfast was ready by the time he came downstairs.
‘Mmm,’ he smacked his lips as he peered into the pan, ‘you spoil me.’
His dark hair glistened from the shower and his jaw was freshly shaved.
She kissed the lips that had kissed her all over only a little while before. ‘Don’t think this would happen every day if I lived h
ere full-time.’
He rummaged through the cutlery drawer and laid out the forks and knives on the table. Meanwhile, she took up the omelette and cut it in two, putting the larger piece on his plate. Once he’d poured chilled orange juice into two tall glasses, they were ready to eat.
‘Compliments to the chef,’ he declared as he tasted the fluffy egg.
‘Thank you,’ she smiled. ‘What’s on the agenda today?’
She expected his response to entail a litany of chores: collecting eggs from the chicken pen, feeding the goats, administering medicine the vet had left for the cows, moving bales of hay from here to there.
An ominous pause preceded his reply. ‘Actually, I thought we might take the morning off and go into Cork . . .’
Sarah looked up in surprise, her fork midair. His face was difficult to read. ‘Why?’
‘Because we’ll need a referral from our GP before seeing the IVF specialist.’
Sarah became aware that her hand, still holding a forkful of omelette for which she had totally lost appetite, had begun to tremble. She tightened her grip on the fork, steadied herself.
‘I haven’t agreed to IVF, Tim,’ she pointed out in a tone that was more forceful than she’d intended.
She saw his shoulders tense.
‘Are you saying a definitive no to it?’ he asked, his own voice dangerously controlled.
‘No,’ she assured him quickly. ‘I’m just not convinced it’s the right way forward for us . . .’
He drew a ragged breath. ‘Can’t you at least see the people at the clinic and discuss whatever concerns you have?’
He made it sound so reasonable. So simple. But then it was to him.
Frantically she tried to formulate a response in her head. Something that would sound just as reasonable.
‘Why are you resisting IVF so much?’ He stared straight at her. ‘Why don’t you want to try it? Is there something you’re not telling me?’
There was no way she could avoid the issue. He knew she was holding something back. This was it: the time of reckoning. Yet, the truth was choking in her throat. The abortion was something she’d held inside for fifteen years. It wasn’t something she could just blurt out when put on the spot.