Come Away With Me

by Sara MacDonald

  When I go down to make coffee for Tom I hear him in the bathroom with the shower on. As I carry two mugs across the landing there is an outraged little bellow from Rosie, waking in a large empty bed to find both her parents missing. We appear in the doorway together, laughing at her until she giggles and climbs on to Tom’s knee.

  Looking at me over Rosie’s head, Tom says, ‘I thought I’d go and collect the Mini early, then if there’s a problem with the MOT I can borrow or hire a car from the garage.’

  ‘The garage hasn’t rung, so I guess it must have passed all right.’

  Tom looks down at Rosie. ‘I’m going to get the car, little pudding, then we are going to the zoo with Mummy. How’s that? Will you put your best dress on for Daddy?’

  ‘Are you walking?’ I ask, lifting Rosie from his knee.

  ‘It’s too nice to catch a bus. Anyway the garage won’t be open yet.’

  He pulls on jeans and a T-shirt, and plants a kiss on the top of my head. ‘See you both later.’

  I have just got into the bath with Rosie, who insists on getting in too, when I hear the telephone ringing upstairs. Danielle answers it, then the girls blow in the front door and clatter noisily up to the machine room like baby elephants. I start to sponge a giggling Rosie when Flo knocks on the bathroom door. ‘Jen? Danielle needs to talk to you straight away. Shall I finish Rosie off?’

  I get out of the bath, wrap a towel round myself and go into my bedroom. Danielle is pacing up and down, impatient and excited.

  ‘What on earth’s happened?’ I ask, drying myself.

  ‘That was Antonio on the phone. He is here for a flying visit and he wants us to meet him. He has a business proposition.’

  ‘You already do business with him. He exports some of our clothes.’

  ‘No, no, this is different, Jenny. He wants to meet you this trip. I am sure he wants us to design for him. A contract with an Italian company is what we have been waiting for. We can expand! There are endless possibilities for overseas export. We could really make our mark.’

  ‘Wait, wait, Danielle.’ I reel away from her enthusiasm this early in the morning. ‘It’s very sudden, isn’t it? We hardly know him.’

  As I dress, Danielle sits on the bed eagerly explaining. ‘I have spoken to him many times when I meet him in Milan. I tell you he likes the clothes we produce. I have checked him out. He has a good reputation. He says your label has sold well in Milan and he likes some of the pieces we do together. I thought he might approach us but I did not say anything to you because it was silly to get our hopes up.’ She pauses for breath. ‘It is your clothes he is really interested in. He thinks they are perfect for the young Italian market.’

  ‘Well, it’s flattering, but…’

  ‘He is in London and he wants to meet us. He had a cancelled meeting. We are to ring his hotel and leave a message if we can make lunch.’

  ‘Oh, no, Danielle, not today.’ I pull on jeans and a shirt.

  ‘He is only here for one day. This is so important.’

  So is my day with Tom. My heart sinks. I have never seen Danielle so excited. ‘Oh, bloody, bloody hell,’ I wail. ‘Why today? Why not tomorrow? Any day but today.’

  ‘I could go alone, but it doesn’t look good. He wants to meet you before he makes a decision, I know it.’

  I give up, sick with disappointment. ‘OK, Danielle. I guess we can’t afford to throw up a chance like this.’

  I hear Tom’s key in the lock and he comes bounding up the stairs calling, ‘Jen? The car’s fine.’ He stops as he sees Danielle in our room and takes in our faces. He knows the signs, it has happened before and it will happen again. ‘Don’t tell me something’s come up?’

  Danielle disappears and I explain.

  His face falls. ‘Oh, Jen, what a pity. Our last day together. Damn.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to do.’

  Tom says quickly, ‘Of course you must go and meet the Italian. You deserve this break. You all work incredibly hard and I know you are the best designer in London.’

  I smile. ‘Biased or what?’

  ‘Absolutely not! You will be rich and famous one day. Look, darling, we’ll get up early and go off somewhere for an hour or so tomorrow morning before I go.’

  He is trying to make me feel better. ‘It’s not the same. I feel so guilty. I’m sorry…’

  ‘Sh. It can’t be helped.’ He puts a finger on my nose.

  ‘Will you and Rosie still go to the zoo?’

  ‘Of course! We’ve got a date, haven’t we, sweetheart?’ He opens his arms to Rosie who has just come into the room squeaky clean in a new dress, all shiny and pink. ‘You look delicious!’ He swings her up under his arm. ’Come on, let’s have coffee together, then we’ll disappear and you can regale me with your triumphs tonight.’

  I watch them from the top step. Tom straps Rosie into her car seat. Rosie turns and blows me kisses with a little fat hand and I blow them back to her. Just before he bends double to get into the car, Tom runs back to me, hugs me again and again, turning me round and round, kissing me, laughing. ‘See you tonight. We’ll bring back fish and chips and a huge bottle of wine. Have an exciting day.’

  ‘And you. ‘Bye, darling. ‘Bye, Rosie. Be good.’

  Tom’s long legs disappear into the tiny car. I watch them in warm sunlight until the Mini sounds its horn and rounds the corner. Leaves from a sycamore tree float down, dance round me and land at my feet. I bend, feeling the dry, crumbly, brown-green texture of them. I feel such a surge of happiness in the life that I have that I close my eyes in sudden gratitude. Then I turn and go running up the stairs yelling for Danielle, wondering what on earth I should wear for this important lunch.

  SIXTY-FOUR

  Paolo Antonio is a thickset, compact Italian with an amazing smile. For some reason he is always known by his surname. He is dark, with body hair covering his arms and hands. He reminds me of a gangster out of a Mafioso film, but his smile and voice more than make up for his physical limitations. He speaks beautiful, almost perfect English.

  He flatters both Danielle and me outrageously, in typical Italian fashion and I notice that there is a certain amount of flirting between him and Danielle. I smile to myself, wondering how much talk-talk has been discussed in bed.

  ‘Jenny, I will explain my proposal. I have been exporting your clothes to Milano under your own label. They have sold very well indeed, but it is an expensive way for me to get your clothes into Italian shops. I cannot afford to sell your clothes in bulk and you cannot afford to design just for me. So this is my proposition. I would like to start a company near Milano making and selling expensive and exclusively English designs. I will put up the money for the sole right to sell your designs in Italy under the Antonio label.’

  Antonio is watching my face carefully as he talks. ‘Initially, I would start with a small workforce making up your clothes to test the market. Milano is full of wealthy young Italian women with a penchant for casual English designs that are different. Labour is cheaper in Italy and fashion is taken seriously and considered big business. We have far less bureaucracy than you have here.’

  He pauses. ‘I have studied the market carefully. It would be more cost-effective to make your clothes from Milano than go on exporting on a regular basis from London.’

  ‘For you, maybe,’ I say. ‘At the moment all our overheads are in one place and we can ensure the quality of the clothes we manufacture.’

  ‘But your little workforce could not cope with the quantities I have in mind. You are both successful designers. Eventually you will be forced to expand, so why not expand in a place where you have a healthy growing market?’

  Danielle is watching me anxiously. She has seen the potential for growth straight away, but she knows that somewhere in me there is a reluctance to take on more because of Rosie and Tom. ‘We would not lose anything by designing under the Antonio label, Jenny. They will still be our designs.’

  ‘We wou
ld lose our independence, our autonomy.’ I turn to Antonio. ’Do you propose to market both our work?’

  He hesitates. ‘You design for a quite different market. I would concentrate on your work primarily, Jenny. It is the more modern, cheaper end of the market, for the young. Once established, I would introduce Danielle’s work to a different age group of woman. I know that you have input into each other’s work. This is why all your clothes are so beautifully detailed. You work together. Danielle has done a wonderful job of establishing a European market for you both. I will be capitalising on this. The way your clothes are beginning to be snapped up by wholesalers makes me realise that the potential for business is enormous.’ He gives me his beautiful smile. ‘I do not throw my money away, Jenny. I am a careful businessman.’ He leans forward and touches my wrist tentatively with a forefinger. ‘Think how you can give rein to your wonderful imagination. We can send round the world for any fabrics you need. Thailand, Singapore, anywhere! My money will give you more freedom in your work, not less.’ He is very persuasive. ‘Make use of my knowledge, my business sense. I know my market. If I put capital into this, what have you to lose, my dear girl?’

  Safety. I love my tiny manageable workforce. Change is risky, frightening, but I have to think of Danielle. It’s her business too.

  As if reading my thoughts, Danielle says, ‘Jen, we are getting more work than we can handle. We have been overloaded for weeks. By transferring our overseas market to Italy we would be solving problems we have been putting off.’

  I know she’s right. We’ve had to take on more girls and convert one of the second-floor rooms.

  ‘Danielle is the ideal person to set-up the project for me. She knows Milano well and of course she speaks Italian. Could you manage without her, Jenny?’

  ‘It would be difficult.’

  Danielle shrugs in her expressive way. ‘Pff! It would not be for ever. I would so much enjoy the challenge of helping to set-up a business again from scratch.’

  ‘Would we be able to support our regular high street market without you designing? Because, as you know, they are our bread and butter. It’s taken years to build up that market, those contacts.’

  ‘There is no reason why I should not design from Italy even if I cannot produce the same volume of work. We are talking about a short flight, less time than it takes you to go home to Cornwall.’

  I grin at her. ‘That’s true. You really want to go for this, don’t you?’

  Danielle leans towards me. ‘We could take on a student, a young designer straight from college to help you. We could afford it now.’

  I shake my head to clear it. ‘Oh God! I hate huge decisions.’

  Antonio pours the last of the wine. ‘My dear Jenny, you cannot make a decision instantaneously. You must go away and think about my proposal and let me know. Talk to each other and then ring me in Milano.’ He touches my arm again. ‘I would love to have you designing for me.’ His hand lies square and dark on the arm of my cream jacket. Long dark hairs run across the top of it. I am unsure whether this repulses me or gives me a small frisson of sexual excitement. He wants my designs and Danielle’s business acumen.

  Finishing the last of my wine, I think of Tom and Rosie and wonder where they are. I suddenly have this overriding urge to run out of the restaurant to find them. I glance at my watch. It is nearly three o’clock. Will they still be at the zoo?

  I would have loved to have seen Rosie’s expressive little face as she gazed at the animals. Regret suddenly surfaces for this missed day with Tom. It feels overwhelming, like a form of sorrow. It is the wine. Too much wine at lunch always makes me maudlin.

  SIXTY-FIVE

  When we get back home, Danielle and I sit in the conservatory drinking coffee and discussing Antonio and his proposition with Flo.

  Full of wine, I fall asleep in the sun and I only wake up when the girls clatter down the stairs at five thirty. Tom should be back by now and I wonder where else he could have taken Rosie. I go upstairs and have a shower to wake myself up. Rosie will be getting very tired unless she’s had a nap.

  I go up to my office and pretend to do some paperwork. I make a few phone calls, then I come down again to make tea, still feeling heady and hung-over.

  By six thirty I am anxious. What can they be doing? Tom sometimes forgets Rosie is only two. Why hasn’t he rung me? I try his mobile but it’s switched off, not even voice mail.

  Flo, coming into the kitchen and seeing my face, says calmly, ‘The traffic’s going to be awful out there if Tom has misjudged and hit the rush hour. Don’t worry. They’ll be back any minute. Rosie will be fast asleep in her car seat.’

  I take my tea into my bedroom and lie on top of the bed. I want them home. I want them to come home now. I have a sudden thought and go to Tom’s desk. His mobile phone is sitting there. He so rarely forgets to take it. He can’t even ring me if he’s stuck in traffic.

  Faraway across the city the wail of a police siren starts up, followed by another and another and another. My blood runs cold. Please God, not a major accident while they are out there. Tom should have headed home before the rush hour. My heart hammers with anxiety.

  They must be nearly home. At any moment they will turn the corner into the road and Tom will sound the horn and park noisily. He will carry a tired little Rosie in and complain about the traffic, and apologise and pull his hand through his hair and look guilty and dishevelled. Any moment. Listen, there’s a car now.

  I jump off the bed and go to the window, but it is another car in the road below. I look down the wide, tree-lined street, willing the small car to appear, but it does not.

  The wail of sirens seems to be coming from all over the city. The dusk is full of this one heart-stopping sound. There will be nothing Tom can do if he is caught up in an incident. He will know how frantic I am and he’ll be swearing at himself for leaving his phone. I lie on the bed again with a throbbing headache and somehow, despite my anxiety, I doze off in the quiet house.

  I am woken, jerked out of an unnatural sleep, by the doorbell. Before I can gather myself I hear Flo going downstairs. I struggle upright and switch on the lamp. Eight thirty. I leap off the bed in panic. This has to be Tom and Rosie. He must have forgotten his key.

  I reach the bottom of the stairs as Flo opens the front door. A policewoman and a policeman stand on the doorstep. ‘Mrs Holland? Mrs Tom Holland?’

  Everything is going into slow motion as I watch myself walk towards them in the doorway.

  Flo gently pulls me to one side to let them come in. She puts her hand under my elbow. I stand facing them. A sick, curdling sensation rises in my stomach. I can still hear the sirens. The blood pounding in my head is so loud that I clutch Flo dizzily. I can’t speak, I stand frozen, staring, trying to read what has happened in their faces.

  The policeman clears his throat. ‘Mrs Holland, could you just confirm that you or your husband owns a vehicle with the registration WH20VTT?’

  I nod. For a second I grasp at hope. Maybe the car’s been stolen. Maybe Tom’s been booked for some traffic offence.

  ‘Was your husband driving the car today?’

  Why is he asking me that?

  ‘Yes, of course he was driving the car.’ I am trying not to scream at them. ‘My little girl is with him. Will you please, for God’s sake, tell me what’s happened?’

  The policeman turns away and speaks into his phone. The policewoman moves nearer to me. ‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Holland. I’m afraid your husband and child have been involved in a bad…traffic accident. We had to be certain it was your husband driving.’

  I am not listening to her words. I just want to go wherever Tom and Rosie have been taken. I circle both police frantically to get to the door, clutching blindly at the large glass knob. ‘Take me to them. How badly are they hurt? Where are they? Quickly, please, we’re wasting time. I must go to them.’

  The policewoman puts her hand out to stop me. ‘Mrs Holland, I’m so sorry. Both your husb
and and child were killed instantly. Death was immediate. I assure you they could have felt nothing. I’m very sorry.’

  I back away from them and shake my head violently. I know it’s not true. They are hurt but they are not dead. They are not dead.

  ‘Come upstairs, darling.’ Danielle is suddenly on the other side of me and she is whispering to me in French, and she and a policeman gently propel me up to the sitting room. They sit me in Tom’s chair and Flo brings me a brandy. She tries to place it in my hands, but her own are shaking too much. Danielle kneels in front of me, folds my hands round the glass and makes me drink. Her face is like a ghost.

  I sit clutching the brandy glass, my eyes riveted to the policeman’s face. In a moment I will wake up sweating and clinging to Tom in the dark, explaining this terrible nightmare, and he will hold me, comfort me, smile at my horror. I will wake up. I will. I will.

  I close my eyes and beg, ‘Please, please tell me it’s not true.’

  The policeman says, ‘I’m so very sorry, love.’

  I can hear the policewoman in the kitchen making tea. I am up on the ceiling looking down at us all.

  ‘What happened?’ I whisper.

  The policeman hesitates. He can’t meet my eyes. ‘At the moment it’s not clear what exactly happened, but it seems an articulated lorry went into the back of your husband’s car. He didn’t stand a chance. The petrol tanks went up in both vehicles. So far we don’t know why. The police are still on the scene. I assure you it was too quick for either your husband or child to know anything.’

  I stare at his face. I watch his mouth making comforting but meaningless words. Rosie, my Rosie in the back of the car, skull crushed like an egg. Tom, for a second frozen with horror, looking back in the driving mirror. Then wham. It’s all over.