“Personal,” Henry spits. “That’s what it is.”
“But she’s well?” Luke continues, and my heart starts to pound. “Not been ill?”
“She’s fine,” Henry says, but the second the words are out he looks regretful. “Now if you don’t mind…”
“So she’s not in hospital?” Luke says, his voice loud now. People across the other side of the hall stop talking, and suddenly the air is thick with silence.
“What?”
“Hospital? She’s not ill? Only you were seen at … now, let me get this right, The Royal London Hospital, I believe? Last weekend?”
My mouth falls open a little. There’s a sting of hurt that Luke never mentioned the name of the hospital to me before, that he hasn’t confided in me.
“That is really none of your business,” Henry says, pulling his blazer together. He looks at the huddle of mothers around him. “Quite frankly I’m amazed you have this much time on your hands. Bit of a tip, mate, if you want to do genuine investigative stuff, maybe try investigating something that actually matters. You know, like child poverty in the north, something that has some significance.” There’s a sneer to his voice that fills the cavernous space. It pollutes what had been a hopeful atmosphere.
“You don’t think your wife being injured has any significance?”
“Who said anything about my wife being injured?”
“It’s just a hunch,” Luke says, and he sounds like a prosecution lawyer, holding court. Everyone is listening, everyone is spellbound. “Seeing as she’s gone missing, suddenly abandoned a job that she loved and that paid her pretty well; you’ve had to have your sister-in-law come and stay to help out with the children…”
Henry turns away from Luke again. “I’m sorry, ladies, but I really ought to be getting back to my family.” He tries to stride past us towards the exit, but the gaggle of women fences him in. There’s something in the way he said the word “ladies”—a hint of condescension that he hasn’t managed to hide. We are all staring at him, waiting for him to explain.
“And of course,” Luke says, raising his voice even further. “There’s the other matter…” He gives a dramatic pause, and I find myself smiling with pride. My hero. I stand a little closer to him, so that everyone knows he’s with me.
Henry turns his head, frowning.
“Your previous form…” Luke says. “Your previous form for violence.”
Henry seems to collapse inwards.
“Now listen,” he says, his voice soft but tinged with panic. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but…” He pauses, gathering his thoughts. “You ought to be ashamed.” There’s new menace in his tone now, as though he’s remembered that attack is the best form of defence. “This is a really important event, and you’ve come here to try to overshadow everything with your pathetic tabloid attempts to find a story, no matter that there isn’t one.”
“So you weren’t once arrested for assault then? You didn’t attack an ex-girlfriend?”
“Get out of my way, man!” Henry shouts, and the crowd shrinks away from him. His eyes bulge from his face, suddenly dark and wide.
He pushes past everyone, breathing heavily, brushing my coat with the chocolate velvet as he makes his way to the exit. But just before he gets there, he stops. The whole room watches, hands to mouths, as he straightens himself up, and turns back towards us.
“I’m sorry,” he says, looking past me and Luke and back at the crowd. For the first time this evening, he sounds sincere. “The last thing Violet wanted was this kind of drama at an event that meant so much to her. I thought me coming tonight would make her happy, would show her that I support her. But I shouldn’t … I shouldn’t have come.”
YVONNE
My punishment for this evening greets me as I wander on to the concourse at Waterloo station. There are crowds of people filling it, so unusual at this time in the evening, more akin to rush hour than 10pm. I look up and my fears are confirmed. There’s been a fatality just outside Vauxhall, leaving the entire system in chaos. There are no trains, as suspected, going anywhere near my home.
A middle-aged woman standing to the right of me is shouting at a customer service representative, who’s shrugging his shoulders at her.
“I’m sorry,” he says, sounding anything but. “I can’t tell you how long it’ll be. We need the police to reopen the line. Like I said, it’s a fatality.”
He says the last word with scorn, and she shrinks back, finally ashamed. She notices me listening.
“Sure it’s tragic and all that, but why these people choose to do it this way…” Her voice has a hint of Irish lilt about it.
“I’m sure they weren’t thinking straight,” I say. “If they were depressed enough to do something like that, I expect they weren’t able to think through the consequences.”
“Pfft,” the woman says. “We’ve all been stranded when some idiot has done this before. We all know what an inconvenience it is for everyone else.”
I turn away from her, unwilling to absorb any more of her bitterness. But despite my sympathy, I find myself sighing deeply, pulling my phone out from my bag. It is really inconvenient. Not least because I’m not even where I’m meant to be. I told Simon I was having dinner with Katie in Clapham Junction. Thank God that he’s not the kind of man to check these things.
My phone rings twice before he answers.
“Hi babe,” he says, sounding sleepy.
“Are you in bed?” I ask, surprised. I picture him lying there in his vest and boxer shorts, and I feel a surge of longing. I wish there was a way I could magic myself there, right now, into Simon’s warm arms. What a frustrating waste of time this whole evening has been.
“Yeah,” he says, the sound muffled. “Bit of a headache. Don’t think I drank enough today. Long day.”
“I’m afraid it’s going to get even longer, my love,” I say. “Because the trains are messed up. Someone’s thrown themselves under a train at Vauxhall…”
“Shit.”
I look up at the timetable board, my eyes flicking along the word “Delayed” flashing over and over in aggressive digital lettering.
“It just says delayed at the moment. What are the chances? I hardly ever go into London and it’s late…”
“Don’t worry,” he says. “You won’t wake me.”
“It’s not just that. I’m tired too.” I want to add that my body is busy building a new baby, but I’m not about to jinx anything yet.
“You could get a taxi?”
I remember again: he thinks I’m only in Clapham.
“Oh, I looked,” I say. “But Uber have put on surge pricing, and anyway, it’ll be twenty minutes before anything can get to me.”
“Rubbish,” Simon says. “Sorry, babe.”
“I miss you,” I say.
“Miss you too.”
“I won’t text you when I’m on a train,” I say. “You try to get some sleep, and hopefully I won’t wake you when I get in.”
“You can wake me,” Simon says, yawning. “I like it when you wake me.”
We finish the call with our usual declarations of love and I try to decide what to do next.
I need the toilet: too much sparkling water gulped down in an effort to hide my face from Henry during the talk. I glance around the station. In the middle is a giant Christmas tree, decorated with huge pink baubles. It reaches almost to the roof. Behind me, I spot something else. Boots.
I weave my way through all the tired and frustrated travellers and wince as I step into the harshly strip-lit shop. The front few aisles are all beauty products, razors, deodorants and anaemic-looking sandwiches. But further back, tucked away among the sanitary products and condoms as though somehow secretly shameful, I find them.
Clearblue Digital is the one I have at home, the one all the women on the forum use. A whole life-changing experience is just minutes away. If I buy one of these and pay my 30p to go to the toilet, then I’ll know my fate. What w
ould happen if I found out that I was pregnant here, on a freezing night when I’m stranded at Waterloo station?
Tonight I see my future laid out, Sliding Doors style, two distinct paths. I think of the woman who threw herself under a train at Vauxhall earlier, and I wonder if she was here, and she’d lost the love of her life. Perhaps she’d spent the best part of seventeen years trying to recover from losing a baby enough to conceive another one, and she’d found out her last chance was gone, snatched away. And perhaps then, understandably, her life lost all meaning, or more importantly, hope, and the only sensible thing to do was to end it. Perhaps she stood here, at Waterloo, under that Christmas tree, surrounded by people who had places to go and people to love, and the whole thing felt pointless.
Seventeen years ago, I was that woman. I had lost everything in the space of three months, and I had no idea how I was going to rebuild myself
But I managed it.
I turn and walk away from the pregnancy tests. All this muddled thinking, it’s all because I still don’t know if she’s all right. Cause and effect. Every action has a consequence, and I need to know, for sure, what mine has been. I need to see him, one last time, to find out. I can’t take the test. Not until I know.
LILY
“What was that about?” I say to Luke once we are secreted in a corner booth of the nearest pub we could find. My fingers are twitching in my lap. Is this a date? It must be a date, surely. There was no need for us to come here, but Luke wandered towards the pub unquestioning, and I was happy to follow.
It’s pathetic, but even if it’s not a date, it’s such a treat to be out, post 10pm, under no pressure to get home to take over from whoever’s babysitting Archie.
“The man’s a dick,” Luke says. He gulps his pint. Guinness, the only thing he drinks.
I asked for a gin and tonic so that I wouldn’t be tempted to order more than one. I hate it, so I have to sip it slowly.
“But you don’t seriously think…” I say, finding it hard to form the words. “That he’d do anything to Violet? Not anything serious?”
“Who knows.”
“So,” I say, sitting back against the upholstered seat. There’s a fire on in the corner and it’s gently warming the left-hand side of me, like I’m being enveloped in a hug. “What was the story with his ex? What did he do?”
“It was years ago now,” he says. “I had to do some serious digging. It wasn’t a serious offence, but an ex-girlfriend accused him of assault. The police dropped the case though when she refused to testify against him. Pretty common outcome by all accounts.”
“Were there any details?”
“No, just that there was a domestic.”
“Gosh.”
“Yeah,” he says. “There are rumors too, that he’s been playing away. That he’s always had other women on the go, throughout his marriage.”
“But…” I say, the thoughts clumping together in my mind. “I don’t get it. Violet wouldn’t put up with that. Surely she would know if he was cheating on her?”
“People can be blind as bats when they want to be,” Luke says. “It’s called love. Or so I’ve heard.” He gives me a little wink and then grins, and I feel my face grow hot again.
I’m suddenly desperate to check my appearance, and so I make my excuses and push my way through the crowds to the toilets. The ladies is unexpectedly empty, and I stand by the basin for a few minutes, trying to examine myself impartially. By some miracle, my eye make-up is still mostly intact, but the blusher I hastily swiped across each cheek has long gone, and the shadows under my eyes are starting to reappear.
I reach into my handbag and pull out my make-up bag, applying what little I have to make the best of things. At the bottom of the bag I see an unfamiliar lipstick. Susie gave it to me last week, telling me that it didn’t suit her olive skin tone. It’s a kind of bluey-red, far more dramatic than I’d usually wear, but I put it on anyway.
Back in the pub, Luke has nearly finished his pint. He smiles up at me as I wander over and take my seat beside him.
“Oh,” he says. “You look nice.”
My hand flies my face.
“Oh, er, thanks,” I say.
There’s a pause and the two of us stare at our drinks. What is he thinking, and how can I get him to open up? I used to be good at flirting, a long time ago.
“Have you got to get back?” he says, after a while. “Relieve the babysitter?”
“Oh,” I say. “No, I mean. No, he’s gone to stay with his grandparents for a few days.”
“Your parents? Do they live near?”
“Yes and no. My…” I pause, swallowing. “My mother died when I was a baby, and my father lives in Dover with his new wife. We’re not that close.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s OK. He’s older … a bit set in his ways.” I think of the way Dad snapped at Archie last Christmas for swinging on the living room door handle. His lack of tolerance for any sort of mess. Five minutes after the Christmas presents were opened, Archie’s were sitting in a pile on the bottom of the stairs, ready to be taken to our room. How I had wished I belonged to Violet’s family, where Christmas meant non-stop giggles and chaos. “I find him quite suffocating, if I’m honest. My stepmum is fine but we’ve never really been that involved with each other.”
“It must have been terrible to lose your mother so young. And … Ellie told me about your husband,” he says, gently. “That he’d died, too.”
“Oh. Did she?” I say, surprised. I can’t remember telling her about it, but I guess I must have done. Or I put something on the bloody forum.
“Must have been terrible,” Luke says, and I can see he’s doing the same thing he did with Henry. Probing, scratching about under the surface, trying to see what’s hidden and coax it out.
I nod, my cheeks burning. “It was … very sudden.”
Luke waits for me to continue. I pause. I could do it—I could tell him everything, the whole story I’ve shared before, so many times. It would be easy, like reciting my full name and date of birth. The details of James’s “death” have been recounted so often that they’re imprinted on my memory, as real as anything else that ever happened to me.
I could do it.
Or I could tell him the truth.
But if I do that, there’s no going back.
“Do you mind if we don’t talk about it?” I say, looking down at my lap. “It’s … very difficult.”
Of course not,” Luke says, and his neck flushes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to pry.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “I did wonder if Ellie might have told you.” I scan my brain, trying to remember what I told her.
“Losing your husband … And you had a baby to look after. Jesus, Lily. I can’t imagine.”
“That was the hardest thing, I think,” I say, swallowing. I want to use the present tense, because it still is. “The loneliness. I just had to get on with it, but when Archie was asleep at night, I felt like the only person in the world. I’m an only child … All I wanted was a family of my own; I thought Archie would have a brother or sister at some point … I was determined that he wouldn’t have the same sort of childhood as me, but…” I shake my head. The tears are falling freely now, because this part is true. “Anyway. I was alone, and grieving. That’s how I first discovered Violet…”
I think of the two Violets I know. The one who saved me, and the one who has let me down, by disappearing on us all. My tears dry up.
“I completely understand,” Luke says. At some point during my speech he’s put his hand on top of mine. He squeezes it gently. Despite my sadness, there’s that familiar kick of adrenalin. It’s working. He’s falling for it. He’s falling for me. Men just can’t help but want to rescue a damsel in distress. It’s cynical but it’s true.
“Sylvia and my dad have been very helpful,” I say. “They wanted me to go and stay with them but I knew I’d be even more isolated if I did…” I sniff back the tear
s. “So I sorted out childcare, found a job. But that was the other thing … the thing that made it so hard…”
Luke looks up at me, confused, and I can’t resist.
After all, what I’m about to say isn’t a total lie.
“James,” I say. I rub my hand against one side of my face. “It wasn’t only that he left us…”
The mess of emotions washes over me: guilt, anger, misery, excitement, all mixed together, making me nauseous.
I think about James, alive and well right now in Wimbledon. If he’s still in Wimbledon—which, of course, he might not be. After we split up, he deleted all his social media accounts, and blocked my phone number and email address, making it impossible for me to stalk him.
Luke’s eyes widen in curiosity.
“It wasn’t only that he left us, you see,” I say, wiping away a tear; “it was that he left us with nothing.”
YVONNE
I push my way through the thick lines of people at Waterloo and go back underground. Simon will be fast asleep now anyway. He won’t care if I get home at 2am. I’ll get a night bus if I have to. So long as I get home before the morning, it’ll be fine.
I wait on the Jubilee line platform. I’m sure Henry will be there, tonight, alone. He’ll slam the door in my face when he sees it’s me, but he’ll open it again, eventually. I’ll stand on the doorstep, shouting of the cold, of the risk of being attacked, and he won’t want to look like the bad guy. Not again.
The train arrives and it’s busier than I expected it to be, full of drunk Christmas revellers incongruously singing Auld Lang Syne at the tops of their voices. I sit back, wrapping my coat around me, grateful for my baby-on-board badge and the man who offered me his seat, a half-hearted smile on his face at his Christmas gesture.
We pull into London Bridge and as the train lurches to a halt, the girl who had been leading the singing leans over and vomits in between her feet. Some of it splashes on her boots, and she looks up, groggy, catching my eye.
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