All That Mullarkey (19 page)

Gav was wearing the expensive russet sweatshirt that Cleo had bought him last year, the one that she’d said made his hair glint red.

She’d asked to come and see him! He had an hour before she was due. Let her come back! Let her stay!

Steaming round with the Pledge in one hand and the vacuum cleaner in the other, shoving frozen lasagnes in the oven, setting the table, he found he also had to set up the mini system from the study because Cleo had taken the other stereo. There. Now: Cleo’s favourites. Elton John? Sting? Nope, of course, she’d taken ‘her’ discs. Have to make do with his collection. Starting nervously as the doorknocker clattered, he shoved on Celine Dion and hoped for the best.

‘Hi!’ He flung open the door. They looked at each other. Gav wanted to kiss her. Christ, he really, desperately wanted to kiss her, to clutch her against his chest and let all the despair wash away as he took possession of her mouth. Instead he stepped back with what he hoped was a friendly grin. ‘I was just fancying a beer, can I get you one?’

‘I’ll just have water,’ she said, following where he led, like a guest.

Lasagne, golden and bubbling, was ready in the oven, and they sat down at the table. He was glad that he’d decided against lighting candles. He could see now that she would be wary of a wooing-back scene. He plonked the margarine tub on the table between them with the hot, crusty bread, tipped the lasagne onto plates and began to eat as if he had a normal appetite; as if the oily fringe where the cheese met the sauce wasn’t churning his stomach.

Perhaps if he got the good news out first, it would pre-empt all the painful explanations that he didn’t want to hear, about her salary being paid into a shiny new bank account in her sole name, what her new phone number was and what she’d told her mum? Gulping his first mouthful he blurted, ‘I’ve got my job back, anyway.’

‘Already? Brilliant! How was it sorted so quickly?’ Her eyes rested on his without any discernible awkwardness, whereas his were flicking tensely between her and his meal.

‘I met Bob for my interview and he was all grave and officious. Then I made my statement and he read it. Then he asked me if I wanted to hang around while it was discussed with the HR manager. Said Lillian was in the building, so we could read each other’s statements, blah, blah. So I spent half the day in his office like some rep, drinking coffee and staring out of the window, reading a paper Bob borrowed for me and being ignored.’ Nervously, he’d spread margarine on four chunks of hot French bread as he talked. He stopped suddenly. What the hell was he going to do with four? Feeling foolish, he offered her the plate as if that had been his intention the whole time. Watched her take one chunk.

‘Then suddenly I was in with Bob and the HRM, they said Lillian had read my statement and had agreed that it
could
all have been an accident. I think she realised that she actually laid her hands on me first. So.’ He smiled.

Cleo’s eyes were bright with pleasure. ‘I’m glad. You don’t deserve any more trouble.’

Gav laid down his fork. His voice came out in a back-of-the-throat growl. ‘How are you?’ Clumsily, as if he’d never done it before, he took her hand. ‘Are you OK on your own?’ He thought he saw a softening in her expression and suddenly, desperately, he was pleading, ‘Cleo, it’s not going to stay like this, is it? I know I was wrong not to tell you about …’ Sod, he was spewing up his spinning thoughts just the burbling way he’d promised himself he wouldn’t. He halted, finished lamely, ‘But if it had been you, wouldn’t you have been tempted to pretend so everything would come right?’

Her eyes were especially dark when they were overlaid with sympathetic tears. She sniffed. ‘If I’m honest, yes, I might’ve done something like creating a pretence to cover up the problem. But,’ she withdrew her hand again, ‘then
you
wouldn’t have been able to forgive
me
. Would you?’

His stomach contracted. ‘Why not? We’ve been together for five years –’

She laid down her fork. ‘It’s stopped mattering. All this has simply opened my eyes – I don’t want to be married any more.’ A large tear slid down each of her cheeks. ‘I’m sorry, Gav, because I used to think we had something extraordinary, better than anyone. And all the time we had nothing. And … and I’m really sorry to have to tell you this, Gav, but I am pregnant. I’ve done the test.’

He dropped his face into his hands. That rather made redundant suggestions of talking and forgiving.

So, though he had resisted it, they did end up talking about separate bank accounts, the barely tasted remains of the lasagne congealing between them, and Gav managed somehow to keep up his end in the conversation.

But all the time he could almost see the foetus like a black tumour growing in the body of his Cleo.

Tapping downstairs from the office after work on Thursday, Cleo’s mind was full of her pregnancy, which still seemed unreal. Surely she should be feeling something by now? Some big clue about what was going on? She swung out of the front door and onto the broad pavement. And skidded to a halt face to face with Justin.

After a long moment, he smiled. ‘I hear you wanted to see me?’

Swallowing, heart pattering, Cleo jerked her head to indicate he should walk along with her, away from the ears of passing colleagues. ‘It’s a bit late – that was last Friday.’ Her voice was sharp; but the memory of hanging around on her own at Muggie’s, the butt of his friends’ impenetrable jokes, was fresh enough to sting. It had put her on her guard.

He lounged beside her as she rounded the corner into Ntrain’s tiny car park. She paused by her car and checked her watch, conscious of Tom and Francesca throwing her curious glances as they went to their cars.

Justin leaned his elbow on her car roof and lifted his eyebrows. ‘So, what was it you were after?’ His sharp features were tanned, making his laughter lines into white creases. He grinned, a slow, teasing, mischievous grin. ‘My body? A bed for the weekend? I’m afraid I was otherwise engaged.’

Nettled by the thought that he’d been too ‘otherwise engaged’ to even reply to her text and save her dangling around, she flushed. He’d probably thought it funny. ‘Nothing. Doesn’t matter.’ Rapidly, she hopped into her car. The parking space behind had become free and she was able to back up and tootle off without any inept shunting.

She got a good look at his surprised expression as she whipped past and out into the street.

At home, she told herself that being alone had a lot of advantages. Cleo no longer had to negotiate over television programmes, or worry about Gav trying to sleep when she wanted to read in bed. Nobody else’s tastes had to be considered at mealtimes. Shopping, meals and laundry were easy and, when she decided to go to bed all evening with the papers, no one bugged her to watch a football match instead.

Solitude was comfortable.

And, she supposed, tugging the quilt up to her shoulders as she chucked the sports sections on the floor and turned to the fashion pages, she should make the most of it. The peace. The quiet. When Junior made his or her appearance on the scene … well, she had the impression that peace would be a thing of the past.

‘So-o-o,’ said Liza, a couple of Sundays later, screwing up her face in concentration as she applied a tiny transfer of red stars to her pinky nail on her right hand, cross-legged like a little pixie in Cleo’s armchair. ‘Guess who was looking for you at Muggie’s, Friday night?’ Cleo could invite Liza over to paint nails and watch
EastEnders
now, without anticipating that Gav would get restless and sarky at feeling excluded and Liza wouldn’t be able to resist winding him up.

Cleo took her eyes away from the doings in Albert Square. ‘No. Really? Was he?’

‘Very casually, you know. As if it didn’t really matter. But he looked pretty disgruntled when I told him that you were probably safely tucked up at home.’

‘Oh.’ Thoughtfully, Cleo began to apply a second coat of sparkling top coat to her nails. ‘Did he say what he wanted?’

Liza shook her head. ‘Nope. You don’t think I’d give him the satisfaction of asking, do you? Have you got
Hollyoaks
recorded, too?’

Later in the afternoon, when Liza had been picked up and whizzed off in Angie’s car, Cleo gazed at her mobile phone and felt herself weakening. After more than a week, her pique had subsided and she had returned to thinking sensibly.

She must speak to Justin. Tell him how things had changed … and that he would soon be a father.

Picking up her phone, she set her thumb to moving rapidly over the keys.
I hear u wanted 2 c me?

Wanted 2 tell u something
, he returned.

That made two of them, then. She went to his name in her phone book and pressed
call
.

‘Hello.’ His voice was like melting brown sugar.

‘So what was it?’ she asked, smiling. Knowing he’d be able to detect the smile in her voice.

‘When you texted me before, I was in America and had forgotten my charger. That’s why I didn’t meet you at Muggie’s. I didn’t get the text until too late.’

Something in her neck relaxed. ‘Oh. Right. OK.’ She pondered. ‘Look, any chance you could meet for a drink and a chat?’

His voice warmed. ‘That would be good. Where? The Three Fishes in Middledip?’ He laughed. Obviously he’d expect Cleo to recoil as if stung.

But, ‘OK,’ she agreed brightly, enjoying his instant of surprised silence. ‘If you don’t mind driving to Middledip.’

Anticipation prickled up her back as she closed her phone. He’d sounded friendly, practically pricking up his ears at the prospect of seeing her.

Maybe everything was going to turn out right, maybe everything was going to be OK-hey-hey!

Chapter Twenty-Two

Sundays weren’t meant to be busy nights at The Three Fishes. A few locals in corners, a couple of logs dancing with flames in the wide fireplace. The barman ambling between customers and the barmaid rolling cutlery into paper napkins.

But Cleo arrived twenty minutes early to secure a nook facing the room, only to find a raucous darts match in full swing and the smell of spilt beer strong on the air, rather than woodsmoke. Dismayed to find not a single empty table, she took a stool at the bar.

Justin breezed in a few minutes after eight, slid his phone and keys onto the counter, bought himself a beer and hoiked a leg over a stool to pull it underneath himself. He’d changed his clothes and he smelt of shaving foam. It was a languid, earthy smell.

Cleo felt somehow touched that he’d bothered. ‘So, how was America?’ She raised her voice over a great, ‘YESSSSS!’ from around the dartboard.

His eyes gleamed. ‘Great, I love it. I stayed with my parents in Massachusetts. Then we all drove up to a log cabin in the woods – supposedly for the walking and the fishing, but actually to eat steaks and drink beer on the porch while we watched the leaves changing. The colours are amazing at this time of year.’

Cleo watched his hands moving as he spoke, his eyes shining as he described brunches and lunches, hire cars, trains, autumn leaves and historic ports. He was drinking Budweiser, she noticed, as he launched into a lengthy description of American hotels, road systems and shops.

His voice began to blend with the background racket as a leg of the darts tournament reached an apparently thrilling crescendo. Her thoughts wandered over the knotty problem of how in hell she was going tell him she was pregnant, with constant cries of, ‘He only needs the double!’ and ‘Wrong side of the wire. Hard luck, mate,’ crashing over their conversation.

The pub had obviously been a bad idea. So … maybe over coffee at her new house? There was such a lot to explain about Gav and the separation, about the baby. Heavy stuff. This was just not the place.

Of course, she didn’t
expect
anything from him, she’d make that clear. But he ought at least to be privy to the information that there was to be a child. His child.

She started from her thoughts. He was waiting. Had obviously just asked something. She found herself smiling suddenly. ‘How about a coffee? My place?’

Slowly, he put down his Budweiser. ‘If that’s … feasible.’ And he smiled.

Cleo licked her lips, swallowed. ‘It’ll be just us.’

‘If you’re certain.’

His black BMW was tucked round the side of the pub. She waited at the passenger door, which, although it unlocked with the central locking system, for some reason wouldn’t budge.

‘Bugger, hang on.’ He ran round the car and pointed out a small vertical crease in the door panel. ‘Someone’s bumped it in the airport car park, it’s awkward to open.’ Grasping the handle, he tugged, bracing a hand against the car beside Cleo, brushing her shoulder. The door groaned and gave way.

Cleo looked up to find him looking down. Suddenly she felt as if she was experiencing a souped-up hayfever attack, making her throat close and her eyes burn.

Slowly, tentatively, he lowered his head until their lips brushed. Cleo closed her hot eyes and let her lips part under his, let their quivering tongue tips meet and felt her hands creep onto his chest. His weight settled comfortably against her, the small questing kiss became a hot, deep kiss and his hand stroking her breast under her jacket. His breath was hot in her ear. ‘Are you sure it’ll be OK at your place? We could go to mine.’