‘Fucking rubberneckers,’ Francis says, turning to me with eyebrows raised, and with a light shock I realize that he thinks we’re on the same side, complicit. He doesn’t understand at all.
‘I’ve had enough of this,’ I say. ‘I’m tired of you showing me up, and I’m tired of living like this. What would you do if you were me, Francis? Seriously, what the—’ Somewhere along the line, my voice has risen out of control and I’m shouting across the rapidly widening space between us. I watch him amble away with his head down, his interest in the conversation lost, pushing through the crowd of tourists and heading for God knows where. I’m crying, tears running down my face and mingling with the rain, and my left hand is still automatically rocking the buggy. I glance down and see that Eddie is oblivious, a fist pressed to his mouth and his eyes starting to glaze with tiredness.
It’s almost an hour before I get him home, and I already know from the nine abortive calls I have made to his mobile that Francis won’t be there. Sure enough, the hallway is dark and cold, and I don’t even bother to call out his name. I peer at Eddie, checking that he’s asleep. He is tightly curled up, his knees drawn against his chest and his head drooping lazily to one side, blond hair ruffled against the fabric of the buggy. When he is sleeping, he looks so like Francis it gives me a confused pang of love and longing, sorrow and loss.
I park the buggy in the hallway, then go to turn the thermostat up and peel myself out of my sodden clothes. I put on my fluffy dressing gown, light the candles in the lounge to try to make the room feel cosy, and do myself a hot chocolate. I drink it slowly, curled up in a blanket, feeling warmth seep gradually through me.
I lean my head back against the cushion, and as I do so something catches my eye – a long, white envelope poking out from beneath the basket next to the sofa. There’s something about it, the way it seems to have been hidden, that makes me lean across and pull it out. It’s bulkier than I expected, and inside are several metallic strips, each containing ten little blue pills. No prescription slip, no official packaging. Source unknown.
I weigh the envelope in my hand, and it isn’t shock that I feel, nothing as sharp as that; a blunted weight of nausea pressing rhythmically at the back of my throat. No, no, no. I’ve known for weeks now, expected it, but it still hurts to be confronted with the reality.
I think about throwing the pills away, maybe confronting him, but in the end I push the envelope back where it came from. I know by now that throwing them away achieves nothing; there will always be more. And besides, if he doesn’t know that I know the envelope is there, I can monitor it. See how fast they disappear.
I force my thoughts down, turning away, and I see that my mobile is blinking greenly on the sofa beside me. At first I think Francis may have texted, and my hand tenses as I pick it up and jab at the screen, but it’s a WhatsApp message from Carl. Hey there. Good weekend? Looking forward to tomorrow? X
I stare at the text, unsure about what it is that bothers me, and then my eyes drift to the kiss at the end of the message. I scroll back through our conversation, confirming what I already know. It’s the first time either of us has ever ended a message this way. Ridiculous though it is, I can feel my heart fluttering lightly, a knee-jerk teenage reaction. I know I shouldn’t be feeling like this. It reminds me of the early days with Francis, when it seemed I was always waiting with bated breath for a communication from him. I remember those days, and the memory is bittersweet, shot through with guilt and sadness.
Slowly, I type a reply. Crap weekend, actually. Had a row with F and feel like shit. But yes, am looking forward to it! Should be good. Grant from the office is playing a gig with his band in a local pub after work, and Carl and I have promised to go and support him. I hesitate, then type an X. My finger lingers over the send button as I look at the kiss, unsure if I’m doing the right thing, unsure of exactly what message I’m giving out. I’m on the point of deleting it when I hear the key in the lock, the front door pushing open, and in a panic I hit send, then stuff the phone into my dressing-gown pocket and stand up.
I brace myself, gathering myself together and standing quite still in the centre of the room, waiting to see the look on Francis’s face. He appears in the doorway, and there is a dazed, shameful apology in his eyes. ‘Sorry,’ he mutters.
‘That’s OK,’ I find myself saying. It’s cold comfort, but it’s something. Enough to make me feel a pang of guilt about the message I’ve just sent, and to make me want to try and claw this day back to normality. I go over to him and slip my hand into his, and so it begins.
The next morning in the office, Grant is a ball of nervous energy, full of talk of his gig and his fears over how the new tunes will be received. He checks more than once that Carl and I are still coming, and we assure him we’ll be there. I can’t help but look forward to it, especially since Eddie is staying with my parents for the night. I don’t have to worry about anything or anyone, not today. The knowledge is seductively light and freeing.
I can’t concentrate on my work, and when the clock hits midday I decide to go out early and pick up lunch. I slip out unnoticed and hurry along the high street, hugging my jacket around me for warmth and ducking my head down as rain starts to spit lightly. I’m waiting at the traffic lights, shivering, when I feel the pressure of hands around my waist, a quick, hard squeeze before the release. ‘Boo.’
I spin round and Carl is there, grinning at me. ‘You bastard,’ I say. ‘You startled me,’ but I can’t help laughing.
‘Sorry,’ he says, not sounding it. ‘Saw you duck out and thought I’d follow you. Thought you might want to grab a sandwich.’
‘Yeah, all right.’ We fall in step together towards the nearby café. I can still feel the sensation of his hands on my waist, the electric jolt it gave me. In the weeks since that night at the bar, it’s as if something has been unlocked. We touch each other more often, brief, teasing connections that I would see as no more than friendly if they were with anyone else. I tell myself I’m being stupid. I’m a married mother, eight years his senior – hardly fantasy material for him. As for me, it’s not the first time I’ve had one of these little crushes, and Carl fits the mould; married to a man eight years my senior, it’s probably no surprise that I gravitate towards the novelty of uncomplicated younger men. These crushes always pass. There’s no reason it should feel any more dangerous than before.
We go into the café and choose and pay for our sandwiches, then settle into a table by the window, watching the steady increase of the rain. ‘Lovely weather,’ Carl remarks. ‘Really lifts the mood, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ I agree. ‘I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be.’ We deal in this kind of sarcasm on a regular basis, but it strikes me that, right now, shielded from the rain in this cosy cocoon, and hanging out with someone with whom everything comes so easily, there’s more than a hint of truth in my words.
‘I’m getting a bit worried about tonight,’ Carl says, as he attacks his sandwich. ‘I don’t know if you’ve ever actually heard Grant’s stuff, but it’s not what people around here might expect.’
‘You’re saying it’s crap,’ I state.
‘No.’ He frowns, feigns offence. ‘Of course not. It’s just a bit, well, a bit alternative.’ He catches my eye, and we’re laughing together uncontrollably, hunched over the table in incoherent mirth. My body aches with the release.