Falling in Love Again

by Sophie King

  For God’s sake! ‘Maybe you should put him in my problem page.’

  ‘Our page, dear. Talking of which, Barry did say something about sending me a contract now it was going so well. Actually, I have. Put your father in the magazine, that is. Take a look.’

  Dear Lizzie,

  My husband, who’s retired, has been having a little fling with a woman who looks like a pug dog. They met up again on the internet. Now they’ve fallen out (internet again) and he’s moved into the garden shed. What should I do?

  Olive, Southend.

  Olive?

  ‘My mother’s middle name. And your father and I first got physical in Southend.’

  Too much information. And what kind of reply was this?

  Dear Olive,

  If I were you, turn the key of that garden shed and throw it away.

  Love Lizzie.

  ‘You can’t put that! It’s not what I’d say and you’ve used my name.’

  Her mother looked rather embarrassed. ‘Sorry, darling. It’s gone to press. Besides, that Marjorie woman reads the magazine. It will make the point nicely. She’ll recognise herself. Two sheds would be too much of a coincidence. Now go on, make that phone call.’

  Phone call?

  ‘To Tom. Ask him round to dinner. And get in two bottles. Not one. You might need them.’

  To her amazement, Tom agreed although he did sound a bit doubtful. She’d managed to persuade him on the grounds that she needed to discuss Sophie’s obsession with violin practice. Then somehow, she had to bring up Sharon The Slut’s pregnancy record card . . .

  First, however, she had to get some food in that didn’t look as though it had come from a shop. And then she had to give the kids something to keep them quiet. And thirdly, she needed to tidy herself up and the house and then . . .

  ‘Whoah there,’ said Dan when she’d told him about her plans just after they’d finished work for the day. ‘Shouldn’t he be making all this effort for you? He’s the one who played away.’

  It was true. But as her mum said, men didn’t think like that.

  ‘Not all men.’ Dan slung his camera bag on his shoulder and began walking with her down Euston Road. He’d become a real friend during the past few months.

  ‘Maybe,’ she conceded. ‘But I’d do anything to get him back again.’

  Dan made a face. ‘That’s what my sister in Sydney said.’

  ‘But I thought she was happily married with six kids.’

  ‘She is. But three of them are from a first marriage. Two from the second. And one from the third. She went through some shit too.’ He looked down at her kindly. ‘That’s why I’m worried about you.’

  Worried?

  ‘Well, concerned. Still, it’s your life.’ He glanced at his wrist. ‘Got to fly. Someone’s waiting for me.’

  ‘Wait!’

  He was already crossing Euston Road, leaving her on the other side where she needed to get the tube.

  ‘Do you think I should I show him that pregnancy record card?’

  ‘What?’

  His voice was lost in the noise of the evening commuters and traffic.

  ‘The one that says . . .’

  Forget it. Besides, what did he know? Or her mother who suggested putting it on the table, next to Tom’s napkin. She’d just see how it went.

  Tom arrived bang on time. She’d only just managed to dose up Jack with cough medicine (how else was she going to guarantee that he wouldn’t interrupt?) and bribe Sophie with a Top Shop Experience, provided she didn’t do any more violin practice that night.

  The look on his face was a picture. ‘What’s wrong with them? Jack doesn’t usually go to bed until after us . . .’

  His voice trailed away as they both recognised the irony of the last word.

  ‘They’re different now.’ Lizzie led him to the table which she’d decorated with rose petals from the confetti shop. Maybe a bit over the top, she realised now, hastily plonking a tablemat over them. ‘This whole . . . experience . . . has changed them. And me. Have you seen this? It’s Jack’s new school photograph.’

  She watched him drinking it in. The annual school photographs had always been a big deal but Jack’s, with his new front teeth beaming through, was particularly poignant. She could almost see Tom’s heart strings tugging. Almost read his mind. ‘Is this what I’ve given up,’ he was thinking.

  Good.

  ‘How is Sharon?’ She purposefully didn’t look up as she put a spoon into the lasagne which she’d carefully taken out of its packet and popped into a dish Mum had lent her. Hers were all cracked or food-congealed. Then she poured a generous glass of red.

  ‘Not too much!’ He held up his hand. ‘I’ll need to drive back.’

  Not if I’ve got anything to do with it, you won’t.

  ‘She’s fine, thanks.’

  ‘Blooming?’

  Go on, turn the dagger.

  He coloured. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Her dates are a bit out, aren’t they?’

  ‘I don’t . . .’

  ‘It’s just that Sophie brought this back with her, by mistake. It must have got into her overnight bag somehow. It’s Sharon’s pregnancy record card.’

  Lizzie waggled the card in front of him. ‘According to this, she got pregnant before you had started ‘seeing’ her.’

  Tom took a large gulp of red. ‘That can’t be right.’

  She knew it!

  ‘So maybe that baby isn’t yours.’

  She said it softly; scared in case she was pushing it. Don’t go too fast, her mother had warned. Too late.

  ‘I know it’s mine.’

  ‘HOW CAN YOU? Don’t you see, Tom? She’s been sleeping around. She says it’s yours but you told me when you began to . . . you know. So that means it’s all right!’

  ‘All right?’ He was standing up now as though he’d had an electric shock. ‘How can it be all right?’

  She held up Jack’s picture and shook it in front of his face. ‘Because then you can come home. You won’t be letting her down because it’s not your baby. And we need you, Tom. We need you just like you need us.’ She waved her hand around in the air. ‘You miss all this.’

  He looked down at the lasagne: there was a big brown plastic sheet at the bottom. Shit. Had she forgotten to remove that? ‘All right, obviously you don’t miss my cooking, but the kids, Tom. Don’t you miss kissing them goodnight; having them bouncing on our bed in the morning; being there when they bring their pictures home from school; waking up next to me, every morning . . .’

  The tears were coming now. Thick and fast. So loudly that for a moment, she thought she could hear an alarm bell. It wasn’t her mobile. She had taken care to switch it off. But it had her ring tone.

  ‘Sorry.’

  When had he got a tone like hers?

  ‘Now? Where? I’ll be there.’

  He shot her a wild look. ‘It’s Sharon. She’s gone into labour. They’ve been trying to get me. I’ve got to go. It’s nearly there.’

  ‘Wait.’ She grabbed her coat. ‘I want to come with you.’

  Her mother wasn’t picking up. Where was she? In all the other emergencies she’d had (like when Jack had to have stitches after that row with his sister because they’d both wanted to wash up), she’d called Sharon. How sad that she didn’t have any other friends – that’s what came of working too hard. But hang on. There was someone.

  ‘Karen? Look I’m really sorry to do this to you. But I’m stuck for a sitter. Yes, Tom did come for dinner. It’s a long story. Is there any chance you could come over?’

  They wouldn’t let her in. Not unless she thought of something good. But she had to be there. Had to be there when Tom realised Sharon had messed him around. Otherwise it might be too late. The Slut had made him think it was his, whereas if she was there, with that wonderful record card, Sharon would have to come clean.

  ‘Her sister?’

  The nurse was eyeing the paperwork in front of her. �
�It doesn’t say she’s expecting anyone.’

  ‘I’m a sort of extended sister. Trust me.’

  She smiled brightly at the nurse.

  ‘She needs me. So does her husband. I’m sort of special to him too.’

  Her eye fell on a magazine on one of the tables in the waiting room. ‘Look. I’m in there.’

  The nurse looked first at the table and then at her.

  ‘In the magazine. I do the problem page. With my mum.’

  ‘So?’

  Clearly this nurse thought she was a loony tune.

  ‘Look!’

  She waved it in front of her. ‘I need to see my sister so she . . . so she can go in the magazine.’

  It was rubbish but the nurse was wavering.

  ‘Which ward did you say she was on?’

  ‘Ward Eight but . . .’

  She was off. Faster than she’d been for the egg and spoon race; at least faster than the race she’d had to get to the race before it started. Faster than she’d run from the car to the hospital. Faster than . . .

  ‘Lizzie!’

  Sharon and Tom spoke in one as they looked up. She stopped. Rigid. Unable to move. If this had been a year ago, she wouldn’t have believed it. Or six months ago. Or last week. They looked like the perfect family tableau. Sharon. Her husband. And their baby. The spitting image of his dad.

  43

  ALISON

  ‘SAM! Get off the bed! You know you aren’t allowed there.’

  ‘Don’t be so hard on him, Mum. He’s just a baby.’

  Sometimes Alison didn’t know whether taking in Sam – a so-called short term arrangement just until Karen had sorted out ‘a few domestic issues’ – had been crazy or the best thing that could have happened to them.

  Sam certainly seemed to have helped Jules. Just look at the two of them, cuddled up now on her bed, while she tried to decide what to wear.

  ‘You look fine in that.’ Her daughter looked up, arms still round Sam who was drinking in the fuss. ‘Why are you changing again?’

  Funny really. As soon as Jules had moved back (‘just for a few months, Mum, ‘till I can afford somewhere’), she could see she had changed. Become softer somehow. More appreciative. Her initial anger about Hugh had muted into a quiet acceptance, especially after Alison had sat her down and told her about the meeting with Dad.

  Jules had wrinkled up her nose and examined her latest arm tattoo, which was what she always did when thinking. ‘Sounds like he’s gone off his rocker.’

  Exactly what Caroline had said – not that she was seeing much of her sister nowadays. The latest boyfriend (some chap called Simon apparently) was taking up a lot of her time. So much so that she had asked Alison to come in for three mornings a week, instead of two. She’d even been ‘allowed’ to write a couple of press releases.

  ‘Your father was working very hard,’ Alison had said, wondering why she was making excuses for David. ‘I think it all got too much for him.’

  Jules had shrugged. ‘Everyone’s parents work hard nowadays. Look at you. You’re never in any more.’

  ‘I can’t help it – I have to work to pay the mortgage.’

  ‘Chill out, Mum. I wasn’t criticising. I was making a point. ‘Sides, I’ve got to find something now. I can’t sponge off you forever.’

  She had changed!

  ‘Where are you going tonight with this Hugh bloke then?’ Jules’s question brought Alison back to the present. She took another glance at herself in the mirror. She hadn’t coloured her own hair for ages but it actually looked quite nice – just as good as the salon and a fraction of the price. And losing that stone since David had left seemed to suit her. This time, the cap had slipped in perfectly although she’d almost used Deep Heat instead which was right next to the gel in her bedside cupboard. What a disaster that would have been! ‘He’s cooking dinner at his place.’

  Jules immediately sat up, causing Sam to leap off the edge of the bed, hoping it was ball time again. ‘You’re going to his house?’

  ‘Apartment, actually.’

  ‘Do you know how dangerous that might be? He could try anything on.’

  She’d thought about that herself, albeit fleetingly. Hugh was too much of a gentleman for that. If anything, she remembered with a squirm of embarrassment, she had been keener, with that goodnight kiss, than he had.

  ‘Well keep your mobile on. And don’t do anything stupid.’

  They both looked at each other, courtesy of the mirror. How weird, she thought, to be discussing a boyfriend with her daughter when only a few months ago she had been happily married. Suddenly, the anger boiled up again inside. How dare David tip their marriage upside down like this? She was entitled to do anything she wanted now – anything.

  After that conversation, Alison didn’t feel like going out immediately. Besides she was early. A walk with Sam was just what she needed to clear her head, especially now the evenings were lighter.

  As she watched Sam bound over the field towards a large chocolate lab he’d befriended over the weeks, she could almost pretend he was Mungo. No! She shouldn’t think that way. He was different. Just as she was now. They all were.

  Still, she thought, as she ran to keep up with Sam, it was lovely to have a dog again. Someone who made you get out, whatever the weather. She’d begun to talk to him too, just as she had done with Mungo. ‘What do you think I should do if Hugh makes a move?’ she asked now.

  Such a lovely little dog, looking up at her understandingly. Maybe she might just ask Karen if she could keep him after all . . . Then he was off and she had to run after him. Wow! She was out of breath. But she felt surprisingly good about it.

  ‘Someone rang for you,’ said Clive when she got back. ‘Someone called David. THE David, I take it.’

  Her heart quickened.

  ‘I’m afraid I might have put my foot in it unintentionally. I said you were out with Sam.’ Clive’s eyes twinkled. ‘Does he know about the puppy? If not, I might just have given the impression that Sam was a bloke . . .’

  Clearly, Hugh had gone to a lot of trouble! The kitchen table was beautifully laid with tasteful green and pink botanical garden print place mats and proper napkins folded on Wedgwood side plates. There was a small candle swimming in a bowl of water in the middle.

  Romantic but not over the top.

  ‘Most of this was my sister’s,’ he said when she complimented him on his taste. ‘She taught me to cook too.’

  He’d mentioned her a lot in the last few months, both to her and at the meetings. ‘It must be hard for you now she’s gone,’ she said quietly.

  His face didn’t move. ‘I get by.’

  The way he said it was more the way a husband might refer to a wife who had died. ‘Smells delicious!’ Purposefully she raised her voice in a lilt to restore a more positive feel.

  ‘Thanks.’ He was earnestly adding chopped fresh tarragon with the kind of precision that suggested he took cooking seriously. ‘We’ll see when we’re eating, shall we?’

  There was something different about him tonight. He was nervous; awkward. And his hands shook slightly as he carried the food to the table. How she yearned to put him at his ease! And yet at the same time, it didn’t feel quite right, sitting at the same table with a man who wasn’t her husband; Wagner in the background when she preferred jazz; wondering if they were or weren’t going to go to bed. Supposing she did it all wrong? Supposing she was boring? Yet David has slept with someone else, hadn’t he? So why shouldn’t she?

  They ate the tagliatelle almost in silence.

  ‘Great pasta,’ she volunteered.

  ‘Thanks.’ He spoke slowly as thought thinking of something else. ‘I made it myself.’

  A man who made his own pasta? Suddenly she had visions of David hanging strips of it from the ceiling to dry, the way she’d seen one of the television cooks doing it.

  ‘What’s wrong?

  He was looking at her almost suspiciously.

  ‘N
othing really. Just a thought that occurred to me.’

  He didn’t look convinced.

  She put down her knife and fork. ‘I feel nervous too, you know.’

  ‘Who said anything about being nervous?’ His face was stony and her heart fluttered with misgivings.

  ‘Well, maybe not you then. But I do.’

  His face seemed to clear, and emboldened she continued.

  ‘You’re the first man I’ve been out with, since David.’ She leaned forward across the table, feeling empowered by the wine and her confession. ‘I’m scared, Hugh. I feel awkward and stupid like a spotty teenager.’

  His hand stretched across the table and clasped hers. ‘You’re not a spotty teenager. You’re beautiful and intelligent, Alison.’

  He jumped up. ‘In fact, I don’t know why I asked you round. I can’t offer you anything. I’m . . . I’m not ready.’

  She stood up then and found herself almost touching him; he wasn’t as tall as David and their faces were close. ‘I’m not asking for anything, Hugh. Just friendship and maybe . . .’

  His arms were around her before she knew it. Solid. Warm. Arms that wanted her. Not arms which had pushed her away like her husband’s. They felt different. Thicker in places and yet somehow less strong. His mouth was on hers now; hard and yet soft at the same time. Exploratory; curious at first and then meaningful as though he was kissing with intent. She felt him harden against her as they stumbled towards a wall, her back against it.

  ‘No!’ part of her wanted to scream.

  ‘Don’t be such a wimp,’ said another.

  Then he was leading her away from the table and into the room next door. Fleetingly, she took in the fact that it was small; dominated by a huge bed with a pink and cream cover. Irrelevantly, she couldn’t help thinking that it was rather feminine for a man and then he was on her; his mouth still pressing on hers and his hands peeling off her black blouse and then her trousers.

  It was too soon.

  ‘What’s that?’

  She froze.

  ‘What?’

  He stopped what he was doing. ‘I can feel little bits in the bed. Lots of sharp little bits.’