Accidents Happen A Novel

CHAPTER EIGHT



The presentation was going well. Much better than she’d expected.

Saskia watched the suave man from the London marketing agency that she had hired for today’s presentation to Dad and his partners fixing his smile firmly on Dad, just as she’d suggested. She’d chosen a marketing agency that specialized in design businesses, and the man certainly knew his stuff. It was important, he reiterated, that an agency such as Richard’s quickly prioritized marketing to head off the effects of the current economic downturn. The Richard Parker Agency needed to concentrate on winning new, younger clients with a viral campaign that relied more on a multifaceted social media campaign.

Saskia tapped her feet under the table, watching her father’s face, waiting for him to react. She’d seen him do this so many times with his own staff, keeping his expression completely impassive as an employee spoke, so that by the end you could almost see the sweat break out on their brow as they waited to see which way his face would break: the beaming grin of approval, or the eyes suddenly darting away, robbing them of eye contact, that told them he was not impressed with their efforts.

This time, however, Richard’s face broke the right way. He clapped loudly, the rest of his staff joining in on cue, relieved. ‘Well done, sir! Impressive stuff,’ he said, then, turning to Saskia. ‘Good job, darling.’

Saskia smiled demurely as Richard’s staff gave her another round of applause, as if they had any choice. She was Richard Parker’s daughter, after all.

‘Well done, Sass,’ Richard repeated, as he picked up his car keys from his desk. ‘Right. I’m off to work at home. Playing golf with Jeremy after lunch, if you’re looking for me. Can you talk to the chap about fees and contract conditions?’

‘No problem,’ replied Saskia, patting his arm, then weaved through tables of computers and design drawing desks into her own office, shutting the door and sitting down.

She had done a good job. She knew she had. Another success to chalk up. As Dad often told his friends and clients, usually loudly and embarrassingly in front of her: ‘Don’t know what we’d do without our Sass. Bloody place would fall apart!’

Saskia sighed as she opened up her laptop. Not exactly true. And, anyway, with the salary her father paid her, there would be nowhere to go to. She must be the best-paid office manager in Britain.

Saskia looked at the screen and saw a note to herself: ‘Snores’.

Right.

Checking that Dad was gone, she summoned Facebook and started the process of creating an account for Jack. Ignoring the age-limit warning, she created an account linked to her own email address under her nephew’s name, adding three years to his age and a photo of him wearing dark glasses, where he could easily have been thirteen.

When the nagging doubts surfaced, she pushed them away. If her sister-in-law was really going to dump poor Jack in a new school, it was the least Saskia could do to help him keep in touch with his old friends. She and Hugo had moved schools enough times as Richard built his bloody business empire to know how it felt.

Her finger hovered over the ‘submit’ button for a second. Saskia exhaled and pushed the button. Jack’s Facebook page went live.

She opened up an email message to the marketing agency to request agreements in writing, her mind still on Jack. He was sensible. He wouldn’t do anything silly, would he?

Saskia started typing, blinking hard.

Oh well. Too late now, anyway.

The minute the Scottish man left the cafe, Kate felt the urge to run straight to Blackwell’s to buy his book.

She went to bite her thumbnail and stopped herself.

No.

She made herself summon Jack’s pale, bloodied face again from this morning.

And now she’d made a fool of herself again, talking to a complete stranger about bloody numbers.

The book was a test of her resolve, and she was going to pass it. Buying it would completely contradict what she’d set out to do this morning. If she didn’t get a grip on her anxiety, she was going to lose Jack. What was more useful was to think about what the Scottish man had said.

‘I just don’t think about it.’

How the hell did you do that? She put David’s proposal in her bag. Well, work was the best way to start.

Waving to the waitress, she left the cafe and headed down Cowley Road, crossing Magdalen Bridge above students and tourists punting in the river below, into central Oxford. The elegant greenhouses of the Botanic Gardens appeared on her left. She swiftly turned into the entrance, before she could change her mind and rush to Blackwell’s on Broad Street.

As she entered the cool walled garden, a welcome element of calm descended on her again, as she knew it would. As Helen had once said, it was like a private park in here. No dog poo or footballs flying around. Just a lush lawn among the thick boughs of centuries-old exotic trees. Unless there was some rare disease communicated by a mulberry white or a honey locust tree that she didn’t know about, the odds of something bad happening were instantly slashed. The numbers rarely followed her in here.

Kate settled on the grass between fallen pine cones, under the thick, gnarled branches of the 200-year-old pinus nigra that had been J.R.R. Tolkien’s favourite, and pulled out her proposal. Her bottom lip held firmly between her teeth, she made herself concentrate on the various cost breakdowns and lists of planning submissions they’d require because the Islington house was in a conservation area. It was difficult to do without her laptop and the internet, but she managed, enjoying the change of pace of working outside with a pen.

After she’d done that, she pulled out a list of teenage applicants for work placements through the charitable foundation she and David had set up in his name after his death. Only David, Hugo’s former partner, knew how much doing this had helped her, being able to carry out Hugo’s dream, to give financial assistance and support to young adults who shared his passion for historical architecture, yet might not have the means to study or find work.

The first girl caught her eye immediately. Aged sixteen, close to the end of a difficult childhood in and out of foster care, she had been nominated by an eagle-eyed art teacher who’d spotted the girl sitting quietly on a day trip to the Tate Modern, doing beautifully detailed drawings of St Paul’s Cathedral across the Millennium Bridge while her schoolfriends ate their packed lunches and messed around by the river. Kate smiled. Hugo would have loved this girl. Her words were unconfident on the application, despite the teacher’s obvious help, but her interest in historic architecture shone through clearly, with some of her exquisitely detailed drawings included.

Kate marked her application for David to consider. Perhaps a summer work placement at the Islington property would be a good start.

She smiled mischievously, thinking of Richard and how much he hated her helping what he termed ‘bloody no-hopers’ with Hugo’s money. And how much Hugo would have loved her for it. Their own little rebellion against Richard’s conservative, money-obsessed ways.

A pang of hunger made Kate look up at ten to four. Her eyes settled on the bone of her ankle, which stuck out like a round white knob. She shifted weight, and placed one ankle over the other till she couldn’t see it any more.

It was only a second, but the break allowed the Scottish man’s book to infiltrate her mind again. It slipped in as if it had been by the door all afternoon, waiting for the opportunity.

She checked her watch again.

Jack had cricket practice until five, then had said something as she left him this morning, white-faced and quiet, about going to Gabe’s after school. She hadn’t even bothered to argue. How could she?

She put down her proposal and laid back on the lawn. A plane breezed across the summer sky.

The chapter on airline safety moved into her thoughts. David had offered her and Jack his house in Mallorca this summer. It had been the third year he’d offered, and the third year she’d turned him down. But, with that book, she could find out the safety records of the airlines who flew there. Make a calculated decision about the risk of flying.

Would it really matter if she bought the book? Just to help her do that? Three weeks away in Mallorca, without Richard and Helen’s constant interference, might just be what she and Jack needed to find their way back to each other.

Kate’s mind flicked through the other chapter headings she had spotted.

Hang on.

She tore at the grass.

If she had the book, with all its research on statistics, all the facts she’d need to feel in control of her and Jack’s safety would at least be in one place. If she proved too weak to keep her addiction at bay completely, the book would at least stop her endlessly scouring newspaper websites and insurance sites for figures. It would help her break the habit. Like a smoker using nicotine patches.

She sat up abruptly.

Perhaps it wasn’t realistic to try to stop this by herself immediately.

She could just cut down.

Yes. The book would help her cut down, and at the same time concentrate more on fixing things with Jack.

At the thought, Kate’s limbs twitched with excitement at what was about to happen. Before she could stop herself, she jumped up, rubbing away the grass that was ingrained in dark red ridges in her calves, packed up her proposal and ran out of the Botanic Gardens. At the traffic lights, she marched right up Longwall Street, then left along Holywell Street towards Blackwell’s bookshop on Broad Street.

She could have that book in her hands in ten minutes.

Kate’s strides quickened. She half ran into the grand double-width of Broad Street, then, when she reached the circular grandeur of the Sheldonian Theatre, crossed over the road to Blackwell’s. So fixated was she on wondering whether the book would be in stock or if she’d have to order it and suffer an agonizing wait, that everything in front of her became a blur of faces, of pastel summer dresses and bare calves and rucksacks and sunglasses and . . .

. . . Then one close-cropped head came into focus.

Kate stopped.

The man.

The Scottish man from the cafe.

Jago Martin.

Right in front of her.

He was crouched down outside the gates of Trinity College further up Broad Street, talking to a young male student.

Kate stopped at the window of Blackwell’s and pretended to look at a display of science books, keeping him in her peripheral vision.

The Scottish man and the student were looking at the tyre of his bike. He was using his finger and thumb to wiggle it. He stood up and looked at his watch, with a slight shake of his head, and said something. The student took back the pump from Jago Martin that he had clearly offered. They waved at each other as the student climbed onto his own bike and set off down Broad Street. As Kate watched, Jago looked back at the tyre.

From here she could see it was completely flat. Burst.

Without warning, Jago stood up and looked around him.

Kate gulped.

His eyes were scanning the street. Kate stood still. She felt his eyes pass over her, and willed herself to be invisible. His eyes kept going – then something seemed to register in his head. They stopped mid-track and returned to her. He gave her a long look and then nodded.

‘Hello again.’ She waved nervously, walking towards him.

‘Oh, hello. What are the chances of this, eh?’ He grinned.

Kate smiled. ‘Have you got a flat?’

He surveyed the tyre. ‘Hmm. I have. I’m wondering if it’s the little bastard whose paper I just failed.’

‘Seriously?’ Kate said, aghast.

‘Nah. Hope not, anyway. Think I went over some glass on Cowley Road.’

‘Oh.’

‘I don’t suppose you know any bike shops around here?’

‘Oh.’ Kate looked round her. ‘I don’t. I know there’s one back on Iffley Road, the one parallel to Cowley Road. That’s the one me and my son use, anyway.’

Kate kicked herself. My son – why did she say that?

The man turned through 180 degrees and pointed towards the High Street with a questioning look on his face.

‘Ah. No. Actually, it’s quicker this way. Through the back streets,’ she replied, pointing in the opposite direction.

‘Seriously?’ he exclaimed, banging his forehead with the flat of his hand. ‘I’ve been going that way all term.’

‘Well, I’m going back to Iffley Road in a minute, if you like – I can show you the short cut.’

Immediately she bit her tongue. Oh God. He’d think she was flirting with him.

She froze.

Or worse, that she’d followed him from the cafe.

What was happening to her today?

‘I mean, you don’t have to, I just . . .’ she stuttered.

‘No. That would be great,’ the man said, standing up and hoisting his bag on his back. Self-consciously, she pushed her hair behind her ears.

‘So, where are you off to?’ he asked.

Kate pointed at Blackwell’s.

‘I was just going to . . .’ She blushed, trying to think of a lie and failing. ‘Actually, I was just about to go and buy your book.’

‘Were you?’ The Scottish man looked incredulous. He rubbed a hand over his close-cropped head, revealing a tanned bicep. ‘God, well, that’s nice of you, but I’m afraid it’s only out in the States at the moment – the British version’s not out till August. But, hang on . . .’ He put his hand into his bag and pulled out the copy from the cafe. ‘Here you go. Have this one.’

Kate gawped, as he held it out. ‘Really?’

‘Absolutely. I got some free ones from my American publisher that I lend to my students. This one was for the little bastard who may or may not have slashed my tyre. But, as his family apparently owns half of Wiltshire, you’re very welcome. Let him get his own.’

He frowned. ‘Hang on. Your family don’t own the other half, do they?’

Kate laughed and shook her head.

‘Good.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘I tell you what: I’m going to get myself into trouble round here. My prole roots coming out. Anyway, here you go. Call it a thanks for stopping me going in the wrong direction for the rest of the summer.’

Kate took the book from his hands gratefully. Just feeling its pages sent a thrill through her. It was all she could do not to rip it open and consume the figures in great gulps.

‘Thanks.’ She nodded, taking it and gesturing him towards the end of Broad Street. ‘It’s this way.’

The man took his bike by the handlebar, and pushed it alongside her.

‘I’m Kate, by the way,’ she said, holding out her hand.

‘Pleased to meet you, Kate,’ he said, taking it. She liked his voice. It was relaxed and friendly, each word confidently enunciated, as if he were in no rush to finish it off before heading to the next one.

She looked at him shyly. ‘So, what are the chances of this? How would an expert in probability explain this, then? Meeting a stranger twice in one day?’

They crossed back into Holywell Street, past a row of seventeenth-century terraced cottages with heavy, studded oak doors and fairytale windows.

‘Ah – well, let’s see,’ Jago said. ‘Where do you live?’

She pointed ahead of her. ‘Where we’re going. East Oxford?’

‘OK. And I’m staying here at Balliol, back there.’ He pointed behind him to the college next to Trinity. ‘So we work and live and shop within, what, a mile or two of each other? I’ve been here for eight weeks. We probably pass within twenty yards of each other every few days. It’s just today, we recognize each other’s faces.’ He paused as if he’d had a thought. ‘Now – that’s actually a good project for one of my lazy undergraduates. Pick a stranger in the centre of town, and see how many times you see them again in a fixed period of time. I should make them do it just to get them out of their bloody beds in the morning.’

Kate smiled. ‘Do you mind if I ask why you are in Oxford? If you teach at Edinburgh?’ They turned into the long curve of Longwall Street, back towards Magdalen Bridge.

He shot her an appraising look. ‘Good question. Actually, I’m on a one-term guest lectureship. Because of the book.’

‘Really?’

‘Uhuh, well, you know, there’s a trend at the moment for popular books about science and maths, written by academics. Brian Cox on the universe, that kind of thing?’

She nodded. ‘My son Jack loves them.’

‘How old is he?’

‘Nearly eleven.’

‘Good for him. Well, there you go. This idea about chance and probability is big news right now, especially in the States – I taught there for a while, by the way, in North Carolina.’ Kate nodded. ‘Anyway, it gives the university a bit of kudos when you write a bestseller. Suddenly everyone wants a bit of you. So here I am, enjoying my fifteen minutes of fame.’

Kate smiled. It was so long since she’d walked along chatting to someone like this. A stranger. Desperately, she stumbled around for something else to say. ‘And do you like it? Or do you miss Edinburgh?’

‘I do. I particularly miss the rain.’

‘Really?’

‘No.’

She glanced sideways at him, confused. She shook her head. ‘Sorry.’

‘No – don’t apologize. I’m being an arse. Seriously? I like the students here. They keep you on your toes. What about you – what do you do?’

Kate went to speak, but Jago held up his hand. ‘Hang on. Let me guess . . .’

She shut her mouth again and waited.

He screwed up his eyes as if thinking. ‘OK . . . The person who injects new ink into recycled ink cartridges?’

His question took her by such surprise that Kate laughed out loud. She couldn’t believe the sound. It was so unfamiliar. It sounded like a shriek.

‘No?’ he continued, as she tried to gather herself. ‘Let me think. Detective superintendent?’

Kate giggled again, unable to stop herself.

‘OK. Greek Orthodox wedding planner?’

‘No!’

He winked. ‘You see, eventually if I go on, I’ll get it. That’s probability for you.’

‘Ah, I see. Well, actually, I do some project managing for a historical renovation company,’ she said, checking for cyclists in the bike lane before they crossed at the end of Magdalen Bridge. ‘And I run a foundation attached to it to help kids from deprived backgrounds get into architectural studies and renovation work.’

‘Do you, now?’ Jago said, looking impressed. ‘Good for you. I should tell my sister about that. She teaches in a big inner-city school.’ He mimed a muscleman. ‘You should see her. Five foot, and feisty as shit. But she’s always saying it’s hard for some of the kids to get a break.’

Kate nodded. She liked the way he spoke about his sister. It reminded her of Hugo.

They stopped at the end of the bridge, and she looked ahead.

Damn.

They would be across the roundabout in a minute, then into Iffley Road. The bike shop was just beyond the junction. They were nearly there, and then he would be gone.

‘Jago,’ she blurted out. ‘Do you mind? Can I ask you something? About the book again?’

‘Uhuh.’

‘You know what you said earlier, about flying with dodgy airlines? That you put it out of your mind. Can I ask you how do you do that?’

He stopped outside an Indian restaurant just before the bike shop, and scratched the stubble on his chin. She looked up at him. He was different physically to Hugo. A few inches shorter, at around six foot, and lean and muscular, where Hugo had been broad like Richard, with the first softness around his stomach thanks to all that good red wine. As Kate looked at Jago, her eyes fell behind him to their reflection in the window of the restaurant. If you were driving past right now, this is what you would see, she thought. They looked like a couple. The image of her with a man again was so strange, she couldn’t stop glancing at it.

She saw his face become more serious.

‘Well, what I meant is that you can’t control these things. You can make an educated guess that might lower or increase your chances of something happening, but in the end, you can’t control everything. Nothing in life is certain apart from the fact that we’re all going to die. You can spend all day trying to work out which is the safest airline, then choke on a peanut in the departure lounge. And, personally, I feel life’s too short. Don’t know about you, but I’d rather be lying on a beach somewhere.’

He regarded her with his intense blue eyes.

There was a spark of interest in them she hadn’t seen earlier. She lowered her eyes self-consciously.

‘Well, this is me,’ he said, stopping outside the bike shop. ‘It was nice to meet you, Kate, and I hope you enjoy the book. But don’t take it too seriously. Remember, it is meant to be a bit of fun.’

‘I won’t,’ she lied, knowing that the minute she left him she would go straight to the juice bar and rip it open.

‘Anyway, as we’ve now established, I expect I’ll bump into you again.’ He touched her on the arm pleasantly, and walked off. Kate felt alarm rising, as he went to go into the shop.

She wasn’t ready to let him go. Not yet.

‘Jago?’ she called, not even knowing what was coming next.

He turned.

She searched in her head frantically. ‘Listen, if you’re new to Oxford . . . you know, I’d be happy to show you round. Jack and I only moved here a few years ago ourselves, so I know what it’s like.’

She saw him hesitate. Glance at her wedding ring.

She cringed inwardly. What was she thinking? He was probably planning to drop off his bike and head off to ask out the gorgeous young auburn-haired waitress in the juice bar. Not some worn-out, thirty-five-year-old mum with – she noticed, to her embarrassment – a rip in the knee of her jeans.

‘Uh. Well,’ he said carefully. ‘To be honest, the students at Balliol were ordered to take me on enough tours of Oxford when I arrived to last me a lifetime. It’s all very nice but . . . I don’t know, maybe a drink one evening? That would be good. You could tell me a bit more about your work with the kids.’

Kate almost stepped back in surprise. ‘Um. Yes.’

‘OK. Well, what about tomorrow tonight?’

Tomorrow was Tuesday. The night Saskia was booked to babysit so that Kate could go to her manufactured therapy session with Sylvia. She appraised Jago. He had already given her more to think about in five minutes than that woman probably would in three months.

‘Would it be OK to make it quite early – about half past seven? I’ve only got a babysitter till about nine.’

‘Yup. Absolutely.’ Gratefully, she noticed he didn’t even flinch at the mention of Jack. ‘I’ll leave it to you where we meet.’

Kate blanched. She couldn’t possibly decide that quickly. She’d need time to work out the safest place to meet and the safest way to get there.

Jago watched her expression. ‘Right – tell you what, here’s my number,’ he said, taking out a pen and scribbling on a piece of paper. ‘Just text me where you want to meet.’

‘Perfect,’ she said, relieved.

‘OK – see you,’ Jago said, pushing his bike inside.

‘Good luck.’ Kate smiled.

As she was about to walk away she heard him call her name.

‘Actually, Kate. Sorry to be a pain, but if we’re meeting tomorrow, can I keep that copy? I was going to go to the library straight after this to finish my notes. I’m using it in a seminar tomorrow for a bit of fun, and it’s so long since I wrote the bloody thing, I’ve been having to remind myself today what I actually said.’ He made an apologetic face. ‘I’ll dig out another one from my room tomorrow for you.’

She held the book tightly in her hand.

‘Sure,’ she said, fighting to control her impulse to cling to it.

‘I won’t forget, promise.’ He smiled.

She waved and walked up Iffley Road fighting the urge to beg him for it back.

Maybe it was better. A test.

All of a sudden, a thought hit her.

Her mind hadn’t summoned up a single statistic about arriving home safely since she met Jago Martin in Broad Street.

Not one.

And, for the first time in a long time, she’d actually enjoyed a conversation with someone, too.

She looked up Iffley Road.

What if she could get home without thinking about any numbers?

Steeling her jaw, Kate picked up speed, summoning up Jack’s anxious face to spur her on, trying to forget about Jago Martin’s book.