The Year of Taking Chances (37 page)

He said nothing.

‘Just like it’s nobody’s fault that Dad’s gone.
Not yours, not mine, not Darcey’s.
Okay?’

He nodded, scuffing a foot along the carpet.
They were up in his bedroom, both perched on the bed, and she was resisting the urge to kiss his poor battered face, and go out and throw a few
punches at those boys herself.
She’d given him arnica for the bruising, and pizza to cheer him up, but it would take a few days before the purple-blue swellings began to subside.
Thank
goodness Judy had been there to bring him home to her.
Thank you, Judy,
she thought for the hundredth time.
I owe you one.

‘I’m sorry you’ve had to put up with all of that on your own,’ she said.
‘The other boys at school, I mean, and the teasing.
And I’m sorry if I’ve been
so busy with work and everything else that you haven’t come to talk to me.
But I’m not going anywhere, you know.
I’m staying right here with you and Darcey.
And I’ll always
put you two first, if you need me, all right?
I mean it.’
God, did she ever.
She remembered her dad making a similar speech back in the day, gruff and fierce, and it had made her feel safe.
That was all she wanted for her children: for them to know she had their backs.

‘Thanks, Mum.’

‘I know things have been strange this year.
We’ve all had a tough time.
Which is why it’s so important to stick together and help each other – me, you and Darcey.
We’re a team.
And as soon as Dad comes back’ –
If he ever bloody comes back,
she thought with a grimace – ‘then he’ll be part of the team again too.
Okay?’

He nodded again.

She leaned against him for a moment: her sensitive, taller-by-the-day son, with pimples breaking out on his forehead; the son who’d stood up for her against her own mother, and who was
feeling the absence of his father so deeply that he’d lashed out against his tormentors.
He was hormonal, Will, but had always been the most mild-mannered, laid-back boy, never previously one
to get in a scrap or an argument.
‘In the meantime we’ve got Grandad, and your uncles, and friends .
.
.
’ she went on.
‘And we’ll be fine.
We’ll get through it
together.’

‘And Judy,’ he said.

‘And we’ve got Judy,’ Gemma agreed.
Judy, whom she’d misjudged quite badly, by all accounts.
She’d have to think of some way to apologize and start afresh.
God,
life was complicated sometimes.

As she left Will’s room and trudged downstairs, she decided that enough was enough.
She couldn’t keep accepting the doesn’t-want-to-speak-to-you calls at
Jonny’s.
Driving up to Newcastle in person and persuading Spencer to come home was impossible right now, with the children and work to think about, but she had to reach out to him somehow.
She had to act.
In sickness and in health, she reminded herself.
Through the hard times and the good.
They had both said some pretty hurtful things to each other, but the marriage was bigger than
that, wasn’t it?
She was not like Karen: bailing out when the going got tough.
Her marriage was worth saving – and she would bloody well fight for it.

She curled up in her favourite armchair with a pad of paper and a pen, and tried to put her feelings into a letter.

She had tears rolling down her cheeks by the time she’d finished the letter and was looking up Jonny’s address.
It was quite the most romantic thing she’d ever done.
But would
it be enough?

Since the night in The Partridge when they’d seen non-mother-to-be Jade getting completely sozzled with her mates, Caitlin had been wondering what, if anything, she
should do about Harry Sykes.
‘It’s probably too soon,’ she said the following Monday at work, when Gemma brought up the subject.
‘If he’s just lost a baby, he’ll
need some time to get over it.’

‘True,’ Gemma replied, ‘but according to my sources – i.e.
the playground mums – she wasn’t even pregnant in the first place.
She was angry at being dumped
and was trying to stick it to him.’

‘She sounds a delightful sort of person,’ Saffron said, rolling her eyes.

‘I know.
Completely the wrong woman for Harry, right?’

Not this again.
Caitlin squirmed on her chair.
‘Look, I barely know the guy.
There was this weird kind of chemistry at New Year and then he was lovely, taking me to Cambridge that day, but
.
.
.
’ She shrugged.
‘That’s pretty much the sum total of my dealings with him.
He might be a complete twat, for all I know.’

‘Spoiler-alert: he isn’t,’ Gemma said, stitching a black lace trim to the hem of the scarlet cocktail dress currently in progress.
‘He’s a good one, Cait.
Take it
from me.’

‘It sounded as if he was keen on you, too,’ Saffron pointed out.
She glanced down at her bump.
‘One thing I’ve learned this year is how important it is to make a move,
sometimes – to take a chance and put your cards on the table.’

‘Absolutely,’ said Gemma.
‘I’m all about taking chances these days.
Look where it’s got me!’

‘Quite,’ said Saffron.
‘I’m not saying go and offer yourself up on a plate, Cait, but .
.
.
’

‘I am,’ Gemma put in.

‘But just take a deep breath and be brave.
What’s the worst that could happen?
He says no.
And, okay, that would be a dent to your ego, but at least you’d know.’

‘Mmm.
And it wouldn’t be embarrassing at all, every time I bumped into him around the village, would it?’

‘I agree with Saffron,’ Gemma said.
They were ganging up on her now.
‘You have to try.
That’s all anyone can do, right?’
Her mouth twitched suddenly, as if an idea
had occurred to her.
‘In fact,’ she said, grabbing her phone and skimming through the contacts list, ‘I’m going to help you out here.’

And before Caitlin could say or do anything to stop her, she’d pressed a button and had the phone to her ear.
‘Harry?
Hi, it’s Gemma.
Yeah, good thanks .
.
.
No, still no word.
That’s why I was ringing, to see if you’d heard anything from him?
.
.
.
Oh, okay.
No worries.
It was just on the off-chance.’
She winked at Caitlin.
‘Sounds quiet where you
are.
Not onsite today?
.
.
.
Oh, right.
No, no reason, just being nosey.
Anyway, I’ll let you get on .
.
.
Will do.
Cheers, Harry, bye.’

She jabbed at her phone to end the call, then smirked at Caitlin.

‘What?
Why are you looking like that?’

‘Well, that’s interesting.
He’s at home.
Not working today.’

‘Very convenient,’ Saffron said innocently.

They
were
ganging up on her.
She couldn’t help spluttering with laughter.
‘Er .
.
.
hello?
I can’t just go round to his house and knock on the door.’

‘Oh, I think you can,’ said Gemma.

‘I think you can take the afternoon off,’ Saffron said.

‘Yes, do – we don’t need you here today,’ Gemma said.

‘Laptop closing down in ten .
.
.
nine .
.
.
eight .
.
.
’ Saffron chanted.

Were they for real?
Caitlin lunged to press Save on the work she’d been doing that morning – a site update for the Yummy Mummies – as Gemma joined in the counting.

‘Seven .
.
.
six .
.
.
five .
.
.
’

‘You two have lost the plot,’ Caitlin told them, frantically pressing buttons.

‘Four .
.
.
three .
.
.
two .
.
.
one .
.
.
Oh dear, we have no power,’ Saffron said, leaning over to switch it off.

Caitlin’s laptop made its farewell tune and the screen went blank.

‘Do you want to borrow a dress to go round there in?’
Gemma asked sweetly.

‘No!’

‘I could do your make-up?’

‘No!
God, you two!’
She got to her feet, feeling flustered.
‘Okay, I’ll go.
All right?
Satisfied?
I’ll go and probably make a gigantic pillock of myself, and
it’ll be all your fault.’

‘Okay, whatever.’
Gemma looked unperturbed.

‘I mean it.
I’ll hold you entirely responsible if this goes wrong.’

‘Yep, got it.’
Saffron was back to typing at her laptop, equally unruffled by Caitlin’s threats.

There was absolutely nothing else for it but to get Harry’s address and go.
And so she did.

This is ridiculous,
Caitlin thought, walking down the road five minutes later.
This is completely bonkers.
Since when did Gemma and Saffron start telling me what to
do about my love-life?

It didn’t take long before her own annoying brain came up with the answer.
Since you started being such a wuss about it, maybe?

Yeah, all right
, she thought crossly.
Who asked you, anyway?

Oh, this was going to be embarrassing.
Her toes were already curling at the thought of her imminent humiliation.
Harry would greet her with a blank, quizzical sort of look – a look that
said
What the hell are YOU doing here?
–
and she’d stammer some nonsense in reply, and then he’d probably think she was a stalker, or some kind of obsessive weirdo.
Before
she knew it, he’d have a restraining order on her, and she’d have to move out of Larkmead with the shame, and .
.
.

Slow down, Cait.
You are actually sounding quite mad.
Stop it.
Shut up.
Just get this over with.

Although .
.
.
well, she didn’t seriously have to go through with this, did she?
She could sit on the village green in the spring sunshine for half an hour instead, then go home and tell
them it had been a disaster and she didn’t want to talk about it any more.
She could even go to the pub and kill some time with one of Bernie’s famous Bacon Butties.
Now you’re
talking
, she thought, slowing to a halt.
It was nearly one o’clock after all, and she was hungry.

Her phone buzzed with a text just then.
Don’t get any ideas about bottling it, Mrs,
it said.
Gemma, of course, the bloody great stirrer.
She was seriously going to kill her for
this.
And
Saffron.
A double murder.

She was two streets away now and starting to feel jittery, so of course her subconscious chose that very moment to remind her of all the nasty things Flynn had written in his last letter, the
words sinking into her skin like little fishhooks.
You stupid bitch, you are MENTAL.
Seriously, you have major problems .
.
.
You’re not even attractive.
You’re a fucking
JOKE.

She stopped walking in the middle of the street, her mind buzzing with the put-downs.
Oh God.
No.
This was madness.
This was insane.
What was she
doing
?

Then a new voice piped up in her head.
A soft, Scottish voice, rich with warmth.
You’re the loveliest girl, do you know that?

Her lower lip wobbled.
Oh, Mum.
Jane .
.
.
whatever she was supposed to call her now.
She remembered sitting on her mum’s knee as a little girl, crying hot tears because the boys in her
class kept calling her Lanky Long-Legs, and it made her feel like an ugly, spindly insect.

You really are.
The most beautiful, funny, sweet girl.
My goodness, I feel sorry for those other mummies sometimes.
Because I know I got the best little girl in the world.

Caitlin lowered herself onto a nearby garden wall, the memory sweet and fresh in her mind.
Her mum had always made her feel better.
Maybe it was time to start focusing on Jane’s words,
rather than wasting another second beating herself up with Flynn’s.

You can do anything you want to, Caitlin.
Anything!
Whatever makes you happy.

That was what she’d said when Caitlin had gone, cap in hand, one Sunday lunchtime and mumbled that she didn’t want to be a nurse any more, she wanted to do something artistic.
Jane’s face had gone a little pink, and her eyes had been sad, but once she’d got over it, she’d given Caitlin her blessing, supporting her and cheering her along through her
college course and her first new job.

That was love, wasn’t it?
A proper mother’s love, regardless of biology.

The thought gave her courage.
So, she wondered, what would Jane say if she could see Caitlin now, sitting on a wall, trying to decide what to do about Harry?

The answer came so quickly to mind it was as if Jane was right there beside her.

You go for it, hen.
Stop shilly-shallying around and be brave!
But mind you get off that wall soon, eh?
You’ll get piles if you don’t hurry up.

Well, then.
She’d better do as she was told.

Jumping down from the wall, she set off again, rounding the corner onto Bridge Street.
Harry’s road: a terrace of red-brick houses, each with a different-coloured front door.
His was
number seventeen, a bright-red door.
Red for danger, she reminded herself with a sudden attack of nerves.

Okay.
This was it.
She would knock on the door and ask if he’d like to go for a drink sometime.
Or maybe she’d pretend she needed to talk to him about another electrical job around
the house?
Yes.
That was a much better idea.
That was definitely what—

What?

The front door had opened before she’d even knocked.
‘Hi,’ Harry said with a grin.
‘Come in.’

That was weird.
That was completely weird.
It was almost as if he’d been expecting her.
Had
he been expecting her?
No, you idiot.
How could he have known?

She followed him into a small, cosy dining room, where a square table had been laid with a white cloth.
There was a cheese board and some ham from the butcher’s, a jar of pickles, a dish
of green salad and a crusty loaf.
‘Oh – tomatoes,’ he said.
‘Wait there, I’ll just grab them.
What would you like to drink?’

She felt as if she’d wandered into a strange dream, or maybe a scene from a play.
‘Er .
.
.
are you expecting someone over for lunch?’
she asked.
‘Because I was only
knocking to see if .
.
.
’ She struggled to think of some other electrical appliance she could ask him to fix, but her mind went annoyingly blank.