Me and Mr Jones (19 page)

Izzy tensed. She didn’t want him to know all her troubles. ‘He’s been in touch, yeah,’ she replied. ‘Nothing I can’t handle, though.’

‘Good,’ he said. A few seconds ticked by before he added, ‘But let me know if . . .’

‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘I will. Thanks.’ She cleared her throat. ‘I was just about to make some food. You’re welcome to stay if you’re hungry.’

He smiled. ‘That would be great,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’

Thankfully there was enough mince and spaghetti for Izzy to cook what she prided herself on as her speciality dish: spaghetti bolognese. It might seem ordinary to some, but the way she made it, adding extra garlic and black pepper and letting the sauce simmer and bubble for a long, tantalizing while, until it had cooked down to a thick, jammy consistency . . .
Mamma mia
, she’d never had anything but compliments afterwards.

Izzy had always been a good cook – you had to learn fast, when you grew up without a proper mum or dad to do it all for you. Also, when there wasn’t much money in the pot, you needed to be creative as well as organized – think of new ways to cook with cheap cuts of meat, and have plenty of tricks up your sleeve when it came to adding flavour and punch. She’d been meaning to phone the landlord of the flats and beg a strip of garden in which to plant herbs and salad leaves, maybe even soft fruit and tomatoes too, to enjoy over the summer. You didn’t need much space if you used it cleverly.

‘So,’ she said as they ate. ‘You’re working at the garden centre, are you?’

‘Now and then,’ he replied. ‘Not the most exciting job in the world, lugging around bags of John Innes for old ladies and watering the delphiniums, but, you know – it pays. I’ve been helping my dad and brother at my parents’ house as well.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Painting and decorating, doing up the old outbuildings,’ he replied. ‘They—’

‘Have you got any children, Charlie?’ Hazel interrupted through a mouthful of spaghetti.

He shook his head. ‘Sadly not,’ he replied. ‘Never been lucky enough yet. Never met the right woman, either.’

‘My friend Madeleine from school told me where babies come from, you know,’ Hazel announced. ‘What happens is, the man puts—’

‘That’s enough, Hazel,’ Izzy said in the nick of time. ‘Eat your food now.’ She glanced over at Charlie, but he had his head down to twirl up some spaghetti. Never met the right woman before, eh? Or was it that he had always bailed out before things got serious? The girls at work would know all about it, she was sure.

‘That was amazing,’ Charlie said, a little later, when he’d scraped his plate clean. His eyes were glazed over with bliss as he leaned back and rested a hand on his belly. ‘Wow. I am as stuffed as a turkey on Christmas Day.’

‘It’s Daddy’s favourite as well, isn’t it, Willow?’ Hazel put in. ‘He LOVES it.’

Willow nodded. ‘It’s
my
favourite too,’ she said, and there was a flash of something – sadness? loyalty? – on her face that made Izzy’s insides twist.

Charlie seemed to take the mention of Gary as his cue to go. ‘I’d better leave you ladies to it,’ he said, jumping up. ‘Thanks again,’ he said. ‘Absolutely delicious. And thanks, girls, for showing me your beautiful pictures.’

Izzy stood up too, feeling as if a spell had been broken. ‘Thank
you
,’ she said, trying not to sound disappointed. ‘Very much.’ She followed him through to the front door. ‘Well, see you around then.’

‘Maybe we could . . .’ He hesitated, then seemed to think better of the idea. Instead he nodded briskly. ‘Take care now. I’ll see you around.’

And that was that, off he went, and the door was shut. Izzy leaned against the wooden jamb for a few moments afterwards, wondering what he’d been about to suggest and why he’d changed his mind.

The flat seemed empty without him, quieter too. She wrinkled her nose as she stacked the plates in the sink and squeezed in washing-up liquid under the hot water.
Don’t go there, Izzy. You don’t need anyone, remember? You and the girls, you’re a team. No room for anyone else.

That said, the girls were drooping around too, as if they missed having Charlie there. ‘Come on,’ Izzy said in the end, when the kitchen was clean. ‘Let’s go down to the beach for the afternoon. We’ll take the buckets and fishing nets.’

‘Just us?’ Willow wanted to know.

‘Just us,’ Izzy confirmed. ‘Hazel! Get your wellies! Let’s go!’

Willow nodded. ‘Good,’ she said approvingly. ‘I like it best of all when it’s just us.’

Izzy hugged her. ‘Me too, chick,’ she said, holding her close. ‘Me too.’

After a lovely beachy afternoon and jam sandwiches for tea, Izzy ran the bath, swishing bubble bath around in the running water. She was glad, on reflection, that Charlie had taken the initiative and come round. She was far too proud ever to have contacted him, having written him off as a mistake. Maybe she’d been wrong though. He was actually—

Willow burst in at that moment. ‘Dad’s on the phone,’ she said.

Izzy nearly fell in the bath.
‘What?’

‘Your phone was ringing and Hazel answered,’ she said. ‘She’s talking to him now.’

Izzy ran out of the bathroom in a blind panic, her heart galloping. Sure enough, there was Hazel curled up in the armchair looking absolutely delighted as she chatted away. ‘Lyme Regis,’ she was saying. ‘It’s by the sea, Daddy, haven’t you ever heard of it? There are loads of fossils and – hey!’

She cried out as Izzy snatched the phone out of her hand and jabbed at the ‘End Call’ button. ‘But that was DADDY!’ she wailed, tears swelling in her eyes. ‘We were
talking
!’

The phone started ringing again in Izzy’s hand and Hazel made a swipe for it. ‘No,’ Izzy said, her voice cracking.

‘But . . .’

‘No,’ she roared, and threw the phone against the wall. It dropped to the floor and she stamped on it again and again, the plastic crunching underfoot until it fell silent.

Hazel was tearful and bewildered. ‘But it was
Daddy
,’ she sobbed. ‘I was only telling him . . .’

‘What did you tell him?’ Izzy asked. ‘Did you tell him our address?’

Hazel buried her face in her hands. ‘I just wanted to
talk
to him,’ she wailed. ‘I miss him!’

Izzy felt as if there was an enormous knot in her throat. ‘What did you tell him, Hazel?’ she repeated frantically. ‘What did you
say
?’

Chapter Sixteen

David had been away for four weeks now and it was getting Emma down, sloping back alone to their titchy flat every night and holing up with the TV or the Oh Baby! mums for company. The two of them had barely spoken since the Poogate debacle, and she was starting to wonder if he was ever coming home. Still, she was reliably informed by her temperature chart that ovulation was starting
now
, so planned to head down to Dorset that very evening. She would get herself up the duff if it killed her.

Before then, she had an afternoon’s work to endure, although she was out on client visits at least. Her first appointment was on Norland Road, up towards the Downs. This was a new client for Emma, but as she drove along the street something familiar about its handsome Edwardian houses set a bell ringing insistently in her mind. She’d been here before . . . but when?

She parked, trying to work out why the scene resonated so strongly in her memory. She’d definitely walked along this road; she’d been upset, she remembered. Looking for one house in particular . . .

Cutting the engine, she leaned back in her seat, still puzzling it over. She couldn’t think of a single client she’d worked for on this street – and why would she be upset anyway? It didn’t make sense. Yet the more she pondered, the more she could remember the tears on her cheeks, and that it was gloomy, early evening. She had sat on a wall just near here, outside one of these houses, and wept.

Then she remembered, like a slap bringing her round. Oh God. Of course.
Nicholas
had lived here, with his wife and three blond children, and his art studio in the back garden. Nicholas bloody Larsson. That was why she’d been crying.

A shiver trickled down her spine as the memory sprung fully formed into her head. He’d been her former lecturer, back when she was a gauche young student at the university. He was thirty-five to her nineteen years; old enough to know better. Dirty old bastard.

She unclipped her seatbelt and got out of the car, a strange, uncomfortable pain lodging in her chest. Oh, he’d broken her heart all right, Nicholas Larsson. How she’d worshipped the man – and how he’d brought her to her knees! For almost a whole year they’d had an illicit affair, most of which had happened in the confines of his office in Woodland Road. History of art had never been so fascinating; she’d hung on his every word during lectures and tutorials, believing herself to be a woman now, convinced that their love affair could transcend all the traditional boundaries that society had put between them.

Then . . . Well, then, everything had gone wrong. Trouble in paradise. She’d got pregnant just as the second year had ended and – surprise, surprise – he hadn’t wanted to know any more. She’d never been able to forget the appalled look on his face as she’d broken the news, the way he’d actually flinched. ‘Oh God,’ he’d said, with none of the joy or excitement she’d hoped he might feel. ‘Shit. You’ll have to . . . Shit. Let me find you the number of a clinic.’

It had been that brutal, that cold. He’d washed his hands of her there and then, choosing his wife and children, even warning Emma to stay away. That was loyalty for you. That was love. The fall back down to earth had been nothing short of agonizing. Hence her tear-streaked visits to Norland Road, desperate to claw back the ecstasy and passion they’d shared not so very long ago.

And what did he do, that noble love of hers? He gave her a cheque for two hundred pounds, of course, and told her to get rid of the baby.

Stupidly, miserably, she’d done exactly that. She had never been able to get pregnant since.

In her darkest hours she wondered if it was a punishment – her inability to conceive David’s baby. What if she’d only had one viable egg and she’d chosen to destroy it? What if that had been her single chance at a baby and she’d blown it, carelessly, caught up in the whirl of devotion she’d felt for that tosser Nicholas?

It had been another reason she felt angry with her body: the fact that it had blithely produced this poor foetus back when she was a penniless teenager and didn’t want it; yet now, when she had everything in place and longed desperately to be a mother, her own flesh steadfastly refused to yield to her wishes. Not for the first time she wondered what would have happened if she’d kept Nicholas Larsson’s baby. Okay, so she’d probably have had to drop out of college, and she might not have ended up with David or her current career . . . but she’d have had a child, wouldn’t she? A teenage son or daughter now. She’d have coped somehow; she always did. What if she’d made the wrong decision back then?

Trying to collect herself, she grabbed her bag and locked the car. There was no point thinking about what might have been, she reminded herself. What was done couldn’t be undone. All the same, she found herself gazing up and down the road, trying to pinpoint exactly which house Nicholas Larsson had lived in . . . and wondering if he might still be there.

‘So, I’ll get back to you with some ideas for carpeting and paint colours in this room, a floor-plan for the . . . er . . .’

‘The drawing room,’ Mrs Bentley supplied, one eyebrow raised.

‘Yes, of course, the drawing room,’ Emma said gratefully, ‘and I’ll ask one of our in-house architects to take a look at the building work for your new wet-room, in order to provide you with a full cost breakdown. Is there anything else?’

‘Well, no, apart from . . .’ Mrs Bentley gave a small, embarrassed laugh. ‘That’s my pen.’

‘Your pen! I’m so sorry,’ Emma said, handing it back to her. She was all over the place; this woman must think she was a complete bimbo.

‘I wouldn’t ask, only it’s silver and was a present from my husband.’

‘No, no, of course, absolutely, I wouldn’t dream of walking out with your pen.’
Pull yourself together, Emma.
She smiled what she hoped was a winning smile. ‘So I’ll be in touch!’

She followed her client down the hallway, feeling an idiot. Thinking about Nicholas Larsson had knocked her for six; she’d spent the whole meeting trying to staunch the flow of memories and failing abysmally. She wondered if his house was a twin of this one, and found herself trying to visualise his decor and style. Was he still married?

‘Thanks very much,’ she said on the doorstep, patting her bag surreptitiously to check that she had her keys and phone. The fluster she was in, it wouldn’t surprise her if she’d left her shoes behind, let alone anything else.

Memories swirled around her like dark clouds as she walked along the street. She shouldn’t think about Nicholas any more. She mustn’t. What was the point?

Because he was the only man to ever make you pregnant
, a snide voice piped up in her head.
That’s the point.