Nothing to Lose

by Anna Legat

  But Luke kept his deepest wishes to himself. He wouldn’t let her have the satisfaction of provoking him. All he wanted to know was why no one had told him. ‘But tomorrow is my day,’ he said. ‘I’m having Imogen tomorrow. Are they back by tomorrow?’

  ‘I don’t know, and even if I –’

  ‘If you knew you wouldn’t tell me!’ He finished the sentence for her, spat at her feet and took himself home. Chances were, being on holiday, Sammy didn’t know about the money. A silver lining – Luke breathed a sigh of relief.

  *

  It was a hot August day, and Trevor had spent it in Greyston, loitering aimlessly in the streets, waiting for Emma. Heat was pounding on concrete pavements and moulding streets into running rivers of tarmac. It was the hottest day on record since the records began. He had had several cappuccinos, gone into a couple of bookshops, bought a couple of books, went to the park to sit on the grass and read. But his mind wasn’t on the books. It was bubbling with images of Emma and their first tête-a-tête. She had been flaunting herself in front of him – swaying her hips, flexing her taut calves, leaning forward to offer him a glimpse of her breasts. It had been a mating ritual. Trevor was still mesmerised. Would he ever recover from this trance? He didn’t want to recover. He wanted it go on. He lay down on his back, on the yellowing grass that was roasting slowly in the sun, turning to hay. He cupped his hands under the back of his head and closed his eyes. He felt the heat spilling on his face. His head was full of Emma.

  Emma. That was her name. It was a perfect name for her, a romantic name fit for a romantic heroine. He revered her and he worshipped the ground she walked on. He would treat her like the queen. He would carry her over puddles. He would open doors before her. He would make her breakfast in bed every morning and bring her flowers, and kiss her hand. And then – God help them – he would fuck her witless! He pictured that moment of his entering her over and over again, in different places, different positions and at different times of day. His cock was hard as a rock. He didn’t care if anyone saw it. The green was full of young people, picnicking, kissing, copulating discreetly. What did they care about a middle-aged man with an erection?

  *

  He must have dozed off. When he came round, the shadow of the beech tree standing four yards away was upon him. His face felt tight, as if his skin had grown too small for him. His arms were angry red. He glanced at his watch. It was quarter to five! He had to run!

  Forgetting his books, Trevor hurried out of the park, heading for Newport Street. He bumped into a few pedestrians on his way, failing to apologise, refusing to slow down. A woman he had inadvertently pushed off the kerb, glared at him and told her friend the man had to be drunk, he had bloodshot eyes.

  He had made it just in time. Emma was walking towards the car park. She must have seen him from the corner of her eye. Her stride quickened – she knew he was with her. Yes, he would follow her home. There was no stopping them now that they had looked each other in the eye.

  *

  It was a mission keeping up with her. She was fearless. That was what Trevor liked about her.

  Loved.

  He loved her. He had never been more sure of anything in his life. He loved her. His heart was singing. The woman in the street had been right – Trevor was drunk. He was intoxicated with Emma.

  She was zigzagging in and out of the stream of orderly cars, each knowing their place in the traffic, each following the unwritten rules of the peak hour traffic. But not Emma. She lived outside rules. She was a free spirit. If he asked her, he was sure, she would drop everything, leave everyone behind, and go with him.

  For now, she was taking him home. With the speed of light! Trevor really ought to consider getting a faster car. The miserable old Skoda was rattling ominously as he was taking sharp bends in fourth gear, mindful not to lose Emma in her sleek, superfast, red Audi cabriolet.

  The roof of her car was down and Trevor could see her long hair flapping in the wind. He could almost smell its aroma. He wished he could come closer, bumper to bumper, so that her hair could touch his face and brush against him, soft and untamed.

  They were in Sexton’s Canning. The traffic here had literally come to a standstill as the roadworks sprawled on the main town artery had taken one lane out of action. The temporary traffic lights, supported by sandbags on the side of the pavement, were showing red. Trevor’s dream had come true – his Skoda touched down on Emma’s car’s rear. There was a slight jerk, an after-tremor following that rear-end entry. He could see Emma’s eyes in her rear-view mirror, studying him. He smiled. The light had changed to green and Emma took off without returning his smile.

  Her house was on the other side of town. She took a sharp turn into her driveway without applying brakes. Her car bounced on the uphill. Trevor pulled up on the other side of the quiet suburban road, under the formidable height of a tall, rigidly manicured hedge of an invisible house behind it. He turned his engine off, lowered himself in his seat, and watched.

  Before Emma even emerged from her car, a man came up to her and kissed her over the windscreen. He opened the door for her. She stepped out, put her arms around him, and kissed him back.

  Instantaneously, Trevor felt sick. His five cups of cappuccino had come up to his throat and frothed up in there. The man Emma was kissing was young and bloody good-looking. He was familiar too. He was the Arboretum Man.

  *

  ‘The man was raving! Absolutely bonkers!’ Emma was telling Ben over a glass of Chablis and the lasagne he had created from scratch. He had eaten his and pushed his plate away, waiting for Emma to finish her story and to finish her food. Piddles was lying on the floor, ignoring Emma but watching his master’s every move. He was devoted to Ben, and these days Ben couldn’t imagine his life without Piddles. Emma was grateful to the creature – it had filled the vacuum left in Ben’s heart over the tiresome issue of the baby. At least, she hoped so.

  She was telling her husband about the man who had called her a bitch – quite an unpleasant experience that Emma didn’t know how to put out of her mind. The man looked desperate – he probably was – but there were rules, simple rules of personal banking which could not be broken. What would the world come to if everybody had a choice of dishonouring their debts? And why had he asked her about children? Who was he to judge her? Did he really think that having children made him in any way superior to her? As if being a parent gave one the mandate to talk down to others! ‘Such a fool! He simply wouldn’t listen. I said, "Mr Orwin, you must pay your penalties before we can discuss extending your credit." It goes without saying. But he wouldn’t listen. He started raging. The language he used...’ She drained her wine glass and poured herself another. She offered a top-up to Ben, but he shook his head. Why did she have the impression he wasn’t interested in her story? He was looking at her, but wasn’t responding. Was he even listening?

  ‘I would’ve called the police, but he just stormed out! What was the point? The man acted like he’d lost his mind. I bet he didn’t know what he was saying...’

  Ben said, ‘Have you finished?’ He was pointing at her plate. No, she hadn’t finished! She was however trying to have a conversation with him! A one-sided conversation as it were, because he wasn’t taking part in it. He wasn’t interested. The only thing Ben was interested in was the baby: conceiving a baby, adopting a baby, having a baby, buying a baby on eBay! Emma was tired of evading the subject of the baby. It was a minefield.

  She drank her wine. Poured another glass. She said, ‘No, I’m not finished.’

  Ben nodded and looked outside the window. She followed his gaze. The street outside was quiet, as usual, apart from a silver-grey car parked outside the Briers’. She recognised that car. It had bumped into her in Bath Road, on the red light. She had looked at the man behind its wheel. He seemed familiar, but Emma had never had a good memory for faces – only numbers. She couldn’t quite place the man.

  ‘That car over there,’ she said out loud. ‘It
followed me. I could swear it followed me all the way from Greyston.’

  ‘That silver Skoda?’ Ben stood up and went to the window. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Pretty sure. I saw that man somewhere else. I know him, but I can’t remember from where. You know how I am with faces!’

  Ben pulled up the blind and opened the window. He leaned over to take a better look. ‘He could be that man who called you names. Did he threaten you?’

  ‘Well, no... Not that I can remember. I didn’t think he meant any of it.’

  ‘You should be careful, Emma! You have to take those desperate people seriously.’

  He had been listening! Emma was relieved. She came to him, put her head on his shoulder and wrapped her arms around his waist. She loved him so very much! Ben always listened. He worried about her. He looked after her. He was her knight in shining armour. How could she ever doubt him?

  The driver of the silver-grey Skoda started the engine. The car’s right tyres pinged off the pavement, and the car drove off.

  ‘Seventy-five thousand pounds, Mr Larkin. It’s a large amount of money. We’ll need collateral.’ She knew how to drive a hard bargain. She was a financial dominatrix. He admired that about her.

  ‘My house,’ he said. ‘It’s worth at least three hundred thousand – a very conservative estimate if you ask me.’ He was going to play the game. It was addictive. Trevor was a gambler, drawn to the poker table like a moth to light, throwing in higher and higher stakes, throwing in everything he had. Emma was the dealer – devoid of emotion, cold, composed. God, she was amazing! And she could keep all the spoils. For his part, all he wanted was to keep her. She was the prize he was prepared to bet everything on. ‘The house is virtually mortgage free. There is only a few thousand left on the mortgage. We have one year of repayments –' He bit himself on the tongue. The word we was an unfortunate turn of phrase. It had brought Sandra into the equation. He wanted Sandra well out of it. He wanted to forget she existed. She was better off kept in the closet, minding her own business.

  Emma looked interested. She nodded approvingly. ‘That would do. We could consolidate your mortgage and the loan into one easy debt secured against the house. The interest on a mortgage would be much lower than that on an unsecured personal loan. And we offer very competitive rates at this time. Of course, that would require a signature from both yourself and your wife.’

  ‘That shouldn’t be a problem.’ Trevor swallowed hard, but showed no other emotions. He too knew how to put on a decent poker face. He would have to deal with Sandra later on. She would have to agree. He would make her. He was growing annoyed with her. For God’s sake, why did she always have to stick her nose into every single one of his affairs!

  ‘In that case, I’m delighted to say that we’d be happy to give you conditional pre-approval. Congratulations!’ She presented a radiant smile and extended her delicate, white hand for him to shake. He wanted to kiss it – kiss it in tiny steps, all the way up to the small of her neck. All the way up to her lips. He willed her to kiss him back, to have her lipstick smudged into the collar of his white shirt for Sandra to discover as she was throwing it into the washing machine. So this whole charade could be over.

  *

  The idea of replacing the old battered Skoda with a swanky Aston Martin had come to him two days ago, after days and days of lagging behind Emma on the road like a poor relative from the country after the lady of the manor. It had occurred to Trevor that Emma deserved better. She wanted a man who matched her immaculate taste in cars, a man with whom she wouldn’t be ashamed to be seen in public, and that meant a man with a swish car. Aston Martin.

  ‘This one here, sir, DB9 Volante cabriolet,’ the salesman commanded a West-End enunciation, rolling his Rs with ease and panache. He was dressed in an expensive suit. His tan was directly from the south of France. ‘Do you care to take it for a spin? Touchtronic six-speed automatic transmission, only nineteen thousand miles on the odometer. She reaches sixty miles an hour in under four-point-three seconds. She can go at a hundred and eighty-six miles an hour without breaking sweat.’ The salesman brushed his manicured fingers along the shiny body of the car with such relish one could be excused for thinking it was the skin of a beautiful woman. ‘Onyx black. You can see yourself in it.’ He opened the driver’s door. ‘Do you wish to give her a go?’

  Trevor slid onto the soft leather seat and was instantly reassured he was in the right place. This was his car. This was the car that would drive Emma and Trevor into the sunset.

  *

  ‘Why didn’t you just tell me, Trevor! I’ve been having all sorts of crazy thoughts!’ Sandra raised her hands and rolled her eyes heavenward. She puffed with relief. ‘What was I supposed to think? You driving away every morning, coming back late... I thought, is he having an affair? Is he seeing someone? Ridiculous ideas, I know, but what was I to think? You’ve been acting weird and you never told me where the hell you were off to.’

  ‘I was trying to salvage the bloody car, wasn’t I?’ Trevor couldn’t believe how easy it came to him to lie. The end clearly justified the means. He and Sandra were sitting in the garden. He had served tea, using Sandra’s special tea set. The woman had to have something special for special occasions but on a day-to-day basis lived surrounded with cheap junk – your typical Mrs Bucket! Still, she was amiable; he had her eating from the palm of his hand. He was a creative man. He read lots of books. He knew how fiction worked. He knew it could closely imitate life. He was making it up as he went, striking while the iron was still hot, ‘The garage has done lots of work on it. I mean every day something new! I had to drive it back... But then when they came up with the gearbox, I thought That’s it! It’s not worth it! It has to go. Plus, let’s face it, I’ll need a more presentable car now that I got the promotion...’

  ‘Yes, you may be right.’

  ‘I’m glad you agree. I’ve taken steps. They’ll take the Skoda as a trade-in. Mind, they won’t give me much for it. It’s really a write off.’

  ‘That’s a shame. It’s only six years old.’ Sandra’s face dropped. She added another spoon of sugar to her tea. She always resorted to tons of sugar when she was unsettled. Such common taste!

  ‘Yeah, six years old but they wouldn’t give me much for it. That’s what you get when you buy a cheap car!’

  ‘I suppose...’ She cocked her head to one side, appearing pensive. ‘Well, I guess you’ll have to use my car while we’re saving for a new one for you. I don’t mind.’

  ‘I do! I couldn’t possibly do that!’

  ‘But we don’t have the money.’

  ‘I looked into it. I waded through different banks, different terms. That was a mission and a half!’ The punchline was coming. He had to be careful. He had to play it right. He couldn’t do it without her bloody signature. ‘Taking a personal loan would be stupid, but what we could do is to add a bit to our mortgage –’

  ‘I’m not sure about that...’

  He ground his teeth, clenched his fists and quickly swallowed his anger. ‘We can afford it, Sandra! I am getting extra pay. And anyway, it’s only a small amount. We’re nearly finished with the repayments, we won’t even notice those extra few months.’ He reached for the folder where the forms sat, with a cross next to a box where Sandra had to place her signature. ‘You see the interest rates on mortgages are much lower than personal loans –’

  ‘Why can’t you drive my car?’

  Stubborn old witch!

  ‘Because it’s yours, Sandra. And what if you need it and I have it at work? No.’ He pushed her cup and saucer away from her and put the form in its place, handing a pen to her and pointing to the cross. ‘We’ll consolidate the loans into one. Barclays has the best rates by far, so I decided to go with them. Sign here and I can get on with it, find a decent car before school starts.’

  ‘Oh well, I hope you know what you’re doing. You really didn’t give me the time to think about it,’ she was saying as she was printing he
r name in capital letters under her signature.

  ‘I did the thinking, Sandra. I thought a lot about it.’

  *

  He had been more or less camping in Sparrow Rise for six days now, waiting for Sammy and Imogen to come back. His deep-seated fear was that Sammy had taken Imogen away, just like Tanya had taken the girls all the way to Scotland without asking his permission, without giving a shit about how it would fuck him up. Luke needed to see for himself that they were coming back home, that 12B Sparrow Rise was still their home.

  To his surprise the stupid cow from across the street had offered him food on a couple of occasions. Sandwiches, mainly. His first instinct was to tell her to go to hell, but then he relented. There was no point letting a good sandwich go to waste. He had eaten the sandwiches and gone back to her with an empty plate to say thanks. Maybe she wasn’t such a bitch after all?

  He was even thinking he could ask her to ring him as soon as they arrived. He was thinking he could give her his mobile number, and go home. But then he saw them. Actually, it was Imogen who saw him first from the top of the road where the bus stop was.

  ‘Daddy!’ She was running towards him, a huge smile on her face, a headscarf flapping over her sun-bleached hair, her tiny feet pattering on the slabs of the pavement. She was all laughs until she tripped over a wobbly slab or a tuft of grass in a crack in the pavement, and flew down to her knees, and burst into tears.

  Luke cursed and raced to her rescue, but Sammy was there first, lifted Imogen from the ground and cuddled her in her arms, Imogen’s tear-stained face buried in mummy’s hair.

  ‘Is she all right? Let me see that knee!’ Luke tried to take a look, but Imogen dug her sore knee into her mum’s stomach and wouldn’t let him see it.

  ‘Take the suitcase!’ Sammy ordered, and he felt suddenly important and indispensable as he followed her, carrying the suitcase while she carried their child into the house.

  Sammy sat Imogen on a stool in the kitchen. The knee was badly scraped, and bleeding. There was blood on Sammy’s dress. She looked good in that dress. It wasn’t often that she would wear dresses. Sammy was a jeans and T-shirts woman. A pang of jealousy shot through his guts: was she seeing someone? Had she just come back from being with another man?