Separate Beds (44 page)

‘No, and it’s better that way. I don’t moon over him. I don’t regret him, but I certainly don’t want him back,’ Her eyes blazed with defiance – and bitterness. ‘Life’s on hold in that department.’

‘So,’ Emily concluded, ‘you’re free to do something.’

For a long time Mia remained silent. Then she stirred and said, in a flat voice, ‘What’s done is done.’

The last few days had helped to restore Tom’s faith – the notion of a new strategic and executive strand in his life had set his blood humming. He could put it this way: finally, he had exhumed the repair kit and was embarking on essential repairs to himself.

Part of it was that he had been dealt a simple act of
kindness by Roger Gard. True, it was an old-boy network and not open to everyone.
That
he would have to think about later but it certainly wasn’t going to stop him acting on it. The gesture – a text – had been out of proportion to the extent that it had helped him. Incalculable.

Part of it had been Annie’s tears. They had run through him too, cleansing and sweeping away things that were best lost.

Fallen leaves swished about his feet as he made his way along the street to number twenty-two and he kicked up one or two as he went. The old responses were surging back to life. One of the many things that had frightened him in the jobless state was the fear that that side of him had died – which did happen: he had only to think of Richard ‘Goldenballs’ Gilbert further down the street, one day lording it in the bank, the next a shuffling has-been. Balls cut off.

He was aware that Annie was perpetually worried and overworked – and still hated the mess in the house (mostly Maisie’s stuff). ‘But it’s OK,’ she had said to him when he mentioned it. ‘I’m training myself not to mind.’

Most especially, he was looking forward to seeing her face and watching her reactions.

He let himself into the house, picked up the post and called up to his mother, ‘Hermione – hallo. I’ll bring you up some tea.’

The post included two hefty bills for electricity and the phone and a back-dated tax demand.

Hermione rang her bell.

For God’s sake, he thought, staring at the figures, and some of his exhilaration drained away. The job at Carbon
Trust was not quite in the bag – he was waiting for the phone call – and the bills were a reminder of his financial mess.
His stupidity
. How long ago and far away the days were when Tom, nourished and plumped on an overblown BBC salary, expenses and staff back-up, had cast his credit card on to a restaurant table and thought nothing of it.
Listen, you fool
.
Understand this: the Nicholsons are never, ever going to be affluent again
.

But they had a roof over their heads. Good.

Tom laid a tray, made the tea and carried it up the stairs. ‘Sorry, Hermione.’

At his entrance, Rollo lifted his head. Tom placed the tray on the table, and rubbed the smeared surface with his handkerchief. ‘How are you feeling?’ Hermione sighed and murmured that she was fine, considering. He poured a cup and handed it over. ‘I’ll take Rollo out before Jocasta brings Maisie back.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’ll join you in a minute. There’s something I’ve got to do.’

He ran up the stairs to the top storey and clicked the mechanism that released the retractable ladder allowing access from the landing into the attic. It was some time since he had hauled himself up it and he was stiffer than he had imagined. Not so good.

He flicked on the light and, summoned from dark relegation, the silent, dusty objects, some shrouded, some stowed any old how – a chair, a mirror with a broken frame – sprang to view. As he picked his way through myriad boxes, tea chests and superannuated suitcases, taking care his foot should not slip between the laths, he could hear Annie saying, ‘Tom, we must clear it out.’ And how many times had he replied, ‘Don’t fuss’? But, she was right. No one
should have all this stuff. They should clear it out and start out again, clean and unencumbered.

Aware that Hermione was waiting, he did not linger but made for the corner where the children’s discarded toys were stacked and exhumed a shape wrapped in a dirty piece of sheeting. He sneezed twice as he unwrapped it to reveal a half-finished doll’s crib, patchily painted in a tooth-wrenching saccharine pink.

He held it up and, ridiculously, felt a lump come into his throat. Incomplete and rather ugly, it represented something beyond taste and aesthetics. Actually, beyond price. ‘If you cut that bit there, Jake … If you glue the join here …’ And: ‘What do I do next, Dad?’ Echoes from the past, the child’s treble chiming with his adult tones, stirring up nostalgia and regret. They had been close then, father and son, and he had neglected to see how that closeness could be carried on into Jake’s adolescence and beyond.

But not too late? He brushed off the dust and reflected: there was so much one did in life without truly understanding – until one looked back.

Once upon a time and long ago
. Intended for Mia, the crib had never been finished because … well, because Tom had never been there and Mia had grown up.

‘Tom, are you coming?’ Hermione’s querulous demand floated up to the attic.

‘Coming.’ Clutching the crib, he made his way down the ladder and slotted it back into place.

Five minutes later, he was pouring a second cup of tea for Hermione and one for himself. She accepted it more or less gracefully. ‘The phone went several times while you were out. I managed to get to it.’

‘You should let it ring,’ said Tom. ‘They’ll leave a message.’

Hermione examined her bad arm and said, in a low voice, ‘I need to be of some use, Tom.’

‘OK. What was the message?’

‘It was Jocasta to say that she planned to keep Maisie overnight. And not to worry.’

‘Oh.’ Tom drank his tea.

Hermione talked at him.
Jocasta and Jake were never really suited. She’s a smart girl. Such a pity they went ahead with a family
… The occasional nugget of common sense and insight broke through.
But one can’t order one’s emotions. Jake does his best
–

He interrupted her. ‘What time did Jocasta say she would bring back Maisie tomorrow?’

Hermione wrinkled her brow. ‘She said she would let us know, and repeated we were not to worry.’

But, ran the logical part of Tom’s brain, Maisie didn’t have her clothes or her Blanky and the things she needed. What was Jocasta playing at? With a sickening clunk, Tom realized exactly what Jocasta was doing and leaped to his feet. ‘I’ve got to ring Jake.’

Chapter Twenty-six

Earlier, Jake had picked his way over the cobbles under the arches and made for the workshop. It had rained, but he knew the puddles were shallower than they looked and the water that filled them tended to be oily. The archways were busy this afternoon, and the sound of garage music and power drills echoed through the area. At the door, he searched for the keys in his bomber jacket and was displeased to notice that his hand shook.

Jocasta
.

He tried to insert the key and missed.
Shit
. He brushed an arm across his face and steadied himself. Eventually he got the door open. A piece of paper had been shoved under it and he picked it up. ‘Phone me. R.’ He put it down on the bench and shrugged off his jacket.

A trapped fly buzzed despairingly at the window. Jake raised his hand to deliver the
coup de grâce
but, stayed by the thought of even a tiny murder on his conscience, opened the window and bundled it out. The air streamed in, importing the duller scent of dead, wet leaves.

Last night the dreams had been particularly bad. More malicious grinning gargoyles. He ran a finger along the shelf of reference books, plucked one out and exposed the pictures from those dreams – devils, serpents and all manner of mythical beasts.

‘I didn’t think you’d ever show up,’ said a voice behind him.

Jake swung round to see Ruth in a pair of sailor trousers and a striped jersey, holding a mug of coffee. She was tousled and a little breathless.

‘Hey.’ He grinned bleakly at her. ‘I was going to phone you.’

Her smile was guarded. ‘You’re not looking so good.’

His anger fired – which, since Jocasta had left him, it often did for no reason, which was worrying. ‘Don’t you start.’

Ruth’s lips twitched. ‘Wouldn’t waste my breath.’

Jake pulled himself together. ‘Sorry. I’m a bit twitchy, these days. But you look OK. Lovely, in fact.’ Now that he looked closely, she did too – all fresh and glowing.

‘I happened to be passing and saw you were here so I got you some coffee.’ She held out the polystyrene mug.

He took it, flipped off the lid and drank a mouthful. ‘Brilliant.’ He had another. ‘I’m really sorry for snapping at you.’ He smiled wryly. ‘I don’t know what’s got into me lately.’

After a moment, she asked, ‘How’s Maisie?’

‘With her mother.’ He wiped the bench with a cloth and gestured to Ruth to sit down. ‘That’s it, really. I’m worried sick about what’s going to happen.’

She eased herself up and raised her face to his and he caught a suggestion of fresh young scent – wallflower? Rose? ‘Tell me again.’

Jake went over the story of Pat Anderton’s mediation – ‘spectacularly unsuccessful’ – and Reginald Brown’s analysis – ‘like being dunked in paint stripper’.

Ruth swung her feet as she listened. At the end, she said, ‘Don’t think about losing Maisie. Just think about what you can
do
.’ She paused and pointed out delicately, ‘I’m sure this
will cost money. Would you like me to bring the books up to date?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘No. I can manage.’

She must have sensed his withdrawal. ‘Just a thought.’

‘It was really nice of you, but I can manage.’ Was she encroaching on him? Curiously, Jake was more or less indifferent if she was. There was a lack of urgency about Ruth, a willingness to allow events to run quietly along, which he found soothing.

Then she reached out and took Jake’s hand. ‘Don’t babies sense when their parents are anguished?’

‘Probably.’

‘Well, then. No anguish.’

The face looking up into his glowed with sympathy and what he could only describe as simplicity and practicality of the best kind, and he asked himself what piece of luck had thrown Ruth across his path.

Without thinking, he bent over, placed a hand on her shoulder and kissed her. Light at first, inconsequential even, then deeper and more serious. Her flower smell enchanted Jake and her freshness acted as a balm. Spring stole across the winter in his heart, bringing relief and succour.

To his dismay, Jocasta came into his head – how different, how very different this experience was, she seemed to be saying. Jake’s lips froze.

Ruth murmured, ‘Don’t,’ and he drew back.

‘Why not?’

‘Because …’ The lids dropped down over her eyes but not before he had spotted an unexpected wariness and vulnerability. ‘It’s not the time. You’re thinking of your wife.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t be.’ She jumped down from the bench and picked up a piece of discarded rosewood. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ she said. ‘I’m available for listening.’

What was there to say? ‘I met Jocasta at a party given by a friend. There was something about her apart from her looks, a certainty that attracted me. I pursued her. We had an affair. We went to Positano for a long weekend, Jocasta got pregnant and I persuaded her to marry me. When Maisie was a year old, Jocasta left me for an American banker.’

‘Would you have her back?’

He searched for the truth … He hated Jocasta. He loved her. He hated her. He thought of the red mouth and her cruel words. And he admitted that he was glad that Jocasta had gone. Impossible – and unproductive – to dwell on the seismic feelings and … the earthquake of falling for someone who didn’t reciprocate, and he so frantic to make it work. Or to wish back the sick feelings when Jocasta had made it clear she was bored and indignant at having been made to marry and produce a child.

He looked at Ruth, shining in the autumn light. ‘No.’

‘Truly?’

‘Truly.’

They were interrupted by a thundering at the door and the surprise appearance of Tom.

‘Dad?’

Car keys in hand, he swept into the office. ‘Jake. Ruth. Sorry about this, but what time was Jocasta’s plane back to the US today?’

‘Seven-ish, I think.’

‘She rang to say that she was keeping Maisie overnight. Hermione took the message so she didn’t understand.’

Within a micro-second Jake had mapped out the whole scenario.
Jocasta in a taxi with Maisie. Waiting in the departure lounge. Carrying her on board
. The implications sank in and anger rose in him, so implacable that he could not speak. Lose Maisie? The world did a fading trick – and Tom and Ruth turned into shapes buzzing around him.

‘Dad. Give me the car.’

‘That’s what I’m here for. I’m driving you. It’s only four, and it’s possible we’ll catch her at check-in.’

Snatching up his jacket, Jake turned to Ruth. ‘I’ll ring you.’

Visibly distressed, she shook her head. ‘In good time, Jake.’

On the nightmare drive across London, Jake phoned Jocasta’s hotel and confirmed that she had checked out. He phoned her New York flat and was told by the housekeeper she was expected back late that night. Then he phoned Jocasta and, as he had expected, she did not pick up.

He had searched in his and Jocasta’s history to find something, besides Maisie, to which to cling – some strand of optimism that would make the sorry episode mean something, some tiny ratification of his love for her. He had recollected the occasional moments – the time she had turned to him in bed and said, ‘Thank you, Jake.’ The moment when she had first held Maisie and all had seemed so well and happy with the world.

At one point he touched his father’s shoulder. ‘Thanks, Dad.
Thanks
.’

Tom drove faster. ‘We’re not letting Maisie go unless the law says we have to.’ He paused. ‘OK?’

‘Need you say it?’

Terminal 4 was knee-deep in passengers and luggage, and the general hum was high. American Airlines check-in was cordoned off and patrolled by employees wielding walkie-talkies. A queue had formed. Jake sprinted down it and returned. ‘Not there. I’ll check Business.’