All That Is Lost Between Us (8 page)

He can still see Anya that night too. She had looked radiant, despite the fourteen-hour labour she had endured. His blotchy, wrinkled child and tired wife made mockery of the manufactured beauty that was touted wherever he turned. He couldn't tear his gaze from either of them.

Remembering, the emotions rise to unsettle him. They had been happy for such a long time, before the problems took hold. In the early days when he and Anya were first married they had regularly hiked over the mountains, to secret spots that Callum knew, initially carrying picnics with them, and later taking baby Georgia perched in a rucksack on Callum's shoulders, her chubby hands clutching fistfuls of hair. They had only stopped exploring so far afield after Zac came along, by which time Georgia was too big to carry but too small to walk far. Their excursions became picnics in the park as they snatched time between naps and the endless chores of the day. He'd told himself that it wouldn't be forever, but now it seemed he'd got that wrong. Anya had never intimated that she missed their rambles. Was that because she didn't, or had she chosen not to complain?

Whichever it was, at that point her attention had slowly shifted from him towards the children. She was endlessly preoccupied with their needs – and the children fulfilled her in a way he couldn't compete with. So, rather than giving in to jealousy, he had looked around at what he might do for himself, and there was Dave from Mountain Rescue encouraging him along. Dave had told him about the team's commitment to the job, the crazy hours, and that it didn't always make for an easy family life, but Callum had done the right thing and discussed all that with Anya before signing up. She liked the idea – she wanted him to have hobbies, she'd said. He had only gone ahead after checking he had her full support.

So, over the past ten years, while he has spent all his free time on the fells, every spare moment of Anya's life has involved packing lunches, helping with homework, taxiing kids to out-of-school activities, and being an endless source of emotional support. They had each found roles that fulfilled them, and to begin with, everything worked. Anya had seemed pleased that Callum had something to keep him occupied – perhaps he was one less thing to think about. The times they could relax together began to thin out, and she always apologised about being too tired to make love. One day the TV arrived in their bedroom, and then they would find themselves watching it until they fell asleep. Their lovemaking drifted to special occasions, and then tailed off even further.

It had been a long, slow drift into apathy, not a sudden downslide. Perhaps that was why neither of them had acknowledged they were heading into dangerous territory, a place where it was too easy to make too little effort. Perhaps neither of them had looked far enough ahead to predict what life would be like in another ten years, when all the kids wanted was for their parents to leave them alone.

He glances at himself in the rear-view mirror, seeing a middle-aged man's face overlaying his own. The creases and lines multiply faster every year now, only his eyes unchanging as the skin bunches and folds around them.

What are you doing, Cal?
he asks this stranger in the mirror.
How has it come to this?

He brings his hands to his face to find they are shaking. Last night, while his family was in crisis, he had been on his own path of destruction. He has let them all down, and they have no idea.

Today he will try to set things right – even though he already suspects that will be impossible. He takes a deep breath, but before driving off, he digs his mobile from his pocket and calls his brother.

‘She's been sedated since they operated on her leg,' Liam says as soon as he answers, his voice a strange rasp, as though something hard has lodged in his throat and he is struggling to speak through it. ‘We just have to wait, see what the day brings.'

‘I'm on my way,' Callum tells him. ‘But there's something I need to do first.'

‘Right-o,' Liam replies. Callum is debating what words of strength he can offer when he realises Liam has already hung up.

He drives away from school and back through Ambleside, before taking a turn down a quiet country road. He glances frequently in the rear-view mirror, aware that his behaviour is bordering on neurotic but unable to stop himself. As he travels, the road gradually narrows, while the view widens to a gentle sweep of hillside, clusters of trees with their leaves already dipped in the flaming hues of autumn. At one point he meets an unexpected traffic jam, which turns out to be the result of two oversized timber trucks taking up most of the road. Once he finally gets beyond that, most of the sights are so familiar he barely registers them, but he does notice that Dave McCready has finally moved his old broken-down tractor from the field in front of his house, and that someone has driven into the sign marking the turn-off for Claife Station, a popular tourist track. He is tempted to stop and try to figure out how to fix it, but really that's just a delaying tactic. Because he's getting close now, and his growing disquiet can no longer be ignored.

Finally, he reaches the outskirts of the bustling little village of Hawkshead and parks in front of a small cottage. There is no hiding the fact he is there – the Land Rover stands out like a beacon to anyone who knows him. Every instinct tells him just to restart the engine and keep driving, but he also knows that if he doesn't face this straightaway it is only going to get worse. Whoever spots him will likely think he is on official rescue unit business, but nevertheless, he pulls the collar of his jacket high and walks quickly up the path with his head down, knocking on the door and seeing a curtain twitch a few moments later.

When she answers, she appears pleased to see him. She is still in her pyjamas, her hair hanging loose instead of tied back, as it usually is for rescues. Her smooth bare face reminds him of the age gap between them, and he grimaces.

He had been drawn to her from the start – but only in terms of a general awareness that she was attractive. There were only five women in their rescue division, and the others were much older. All the men at the station had at least noticed Danielle, whether they were married or not. When she first began her training she had quickly slotted into the team – she was a hard worker when she needed to be, often quiet, but always able to keep up with the teasing that everyone used to counteract the more serious side of the job.

He hadn't registered her interest in him at all, until she began making excuses to spend time in his company. Other people spotted it as well – there had been one or two playful remarks thrown their way, but nothing too confronting – just part of the general camaraderie between them all. There could often be a bit of banter about a good-looking woman, but it never went too far. The blokes at the station might joke about their wives – some called their missus ‘the boss', some made rueful comments about the state of their sex lives – but they were all acknowledging the compromises, the sacrifices that came from settling. They might enjoy a look elsewhere, but as far as Callum knows not one of them has strayed. They seem resigned, if not content, with the status quo – hell, Callum had been too. At no time had he been looking for an affair, even though he knew there were problems in his marriage. He was accustomed to the awkward silences and miscommunications at home – he didn't like it, but he had filled his days so that he didn't have too much time to think about it. The events of last night had taken him by surprise, and this morning he feels close to having an out-of-body experience.
Who the hell are you?
he asks himself as he stands in the doorway.
Because
this
is not who you thought you were at all
.

You didn't have sex with her
, he reassures himself, as though that made it somehow acceptable to let a woman half-undress in front of him, let her kiss him, let her touch him, and let himself respond. As though his breath hadn't been shallow at the thrill of it. As though he hadn't been hard with desire.

Yet still, because she had made all the moves, part of him is crying foul, trying to wriggle away from the blame, recasting himself as merely a surprised victim of Danielle's assertiveness. But while he hadn't started it, he hadn't stopped it either. He had made a choice.

He understands why men his age are enticed by younger women: he can still remember dipping his hands into the inverted question marks of Danielle's waist, and the taut skin around her neck where his lips had met the sweetness of her skin. But as a married man, these memories are the kind that sour fast, and reliving those moments of weakness brings bitterness to his tongue and sets off an angry itch to his skin that he is desperate to relieve.

The station had been deserted by the time it had happened, so at least he is sure no one had seen them. Earlier in the evening the police had been in touch with the unit about a walker who hadn't reported in to his hotel, and Callum had sent out an alert to the team. However, by the time people began arriving at the rescue station, the missing man had been found drinking in one of the local pubs, having forgotten to let anyone know he was back. Most went home again straightaway, but Danielle had stayed to do a stocktake of some of the equipment. Callum had gone to help her, and Les Pickering, the rescue team coordinator, had looked in on them at one point. At the time, Callum hadn't noticed anything remiss, but now he replayed the memory it seemed as though Les had given him a strange look – and he had closed the door quickly. Had Les sensed something was going on, even before things got physical?

Callum cannot stop thinking in confessional clichés this morning.
I didn't mean it to happen.
I didn't want to hurt anyone. And it will never happen again, because in the cold light of day . . .
Oh yes, the reality of daylight is stark and frigid and leaves nowhere to hide.

He has been lost in these thoughts as Danielle stands in front of him without a word. When he comes back to his surroundings he is forced to speak first. ‘I was hoping I'd catch you before you headed to work. Can I come in?'

She moves aside so he can get past, and he hovers in the hallway until she has closed the door. ‘I've come to apologise,' he says, feeling as though he is reciting formal lines from some well-known rule book of transgression. ‘It – we – last night – I'm so sorry, it should never have happened.'

All pleasure vanishes from Danielle's face. She folds her arms and her look runs right through him. ‘Why am I not surprised? You'd better come in.'

He follows her into the lounge room. He has never been here before and the interior is surprisingly old-fashioned. Her furniture belongs in a charity shop, but then he couldn't imagine outdoorsy Danielle browsing through the home catalogues. Still, somehow this place feels far cosier than his sister-in-law's carefully laid out Laura Ashley interior. Or his own practically furnished home, for that matter.

‘Take a seat, then,' she gestures to the sofa. ‘Do you want a coffee?'

He perches uncomfortably on the edge of a cushion, unsettled by her formal civility. His mind flashes back to her excited, uneven breaths as she straddled him less than twelve hours ago. He's aware of stirrings in his groin. He feels like a teenager.

‘I don't think I should stay.' He wants to stand up but he can't bring himself to, yet. ‘Like I said, I just needed to tell you that I'm sorry. Last night, it was a mistake . . .'

‘A mistake.' She repeats the words so quietly that he is unsure he heard them. She takes the seat opposite him, and stares at the floor.

An uncomfortable tangle of emotions begins to rise in him – embarrassment, confusion and fear. ‘Please help me out, Danielle. You know what I'm saying.'

She catches his eye and whatever she reads there spurs her into action. She comes and kneels in front of him, putting her hands on his knees. He looks down at her touch, studies her soft, smooth skin, so different to his rough weather-beaten fingers. ‘Callum, this is your guilt talking. Whatever it is that we've started, it's been building up between us for months. Or are you going to lie now, and tell me differently?'

Callum can't meet her eye.

‘I heard about the accident,' Danielle says, the change of tack surprising him. ‘I'm so glad that Georgia's okay. She
is
okay, isn't she?'

‘Yes, she's fine . . . well, kind of. The thing is, Dani, there's just far too much wrong with this scenario . . .' He waves his hands between them, trying to think of ways he might persuade her to draw a line under this indiscretion on amicable terms. ‘I'm way too old for you.' He holds a hand up, forestalling her objections, ‘And what happened last night was beyond selfish on my part. I let everybody down, most of all myself. I'm not about to live two separate lives; I just can't do it. This has to stop now, I'm sorry.'

‘Callum, you're forty-five, not sixty-five,' Danielle replies, sitting back on her heels, her hands resting on her own thighs now. ‘And do you realise that you didn't even mention your wife in that little speech?'

That gives him a jolt. He opens his mouth to argue, but she is right. At the thought of Anya he feels another shot of shame. She doesn't deserve this extra act of betrayal. The state of their marriage shouldn't be analysed in her absence, even when he has no doubt they are in trouble. When he thinks of Anya nowadays, he realises, it is usually with a vague feeling of annoyance, and yet, now, after he does the unimaginable, he is desperate to defend her. What is happening to him? How has he let things get this far out of control?

He remembers what it felt like when he and Anya had first fallen in love – that passion was one he wanted to shout out to the world, not this furtive, uncomfortable thing that he's managed to build up in semi-ignorance with Danielle.