The Year of Taking Chances (6 page)

She smiled.
‘Have you got kids yourself, Harry?’

His eyes were on the road and she couldn’t see his expression.
‘No.
You?’

‘No.’

‘Any aggressive, tattooed husbands I should know about, who’ll be lying in wait for us in Cambridge, cracking their knuckles and giving me menacing looks?’

She snorted.
‘No.
You’re quite safe.’

He glanced over at her as he slowed at a roundabout.
‘Any ex-husbands at all?
Go on, let’s hear it.
My Glorious Life, by Caitlin Fraser.
Tell me the lot.’

‘No ex-husbands.’
What the hell, she thought.
They wouldn’t be in Cambridge for ages.
‘I worked as a nurse for a while, then .
.
.
’

‘Excellent.
Love nurses.’

She rolled her eyes.
Was there a man on earth who didn’t?
‘Lived in Norwich for a while with Serious Boyfriend number one, who was this mega-brain computer boffin.’

‘Hmm.
I don’t like the sound of him.’

‘He was all right.’
Jeremy Langley, geeky and earnest, but so talented that he’d been lured by big money and glory in Silicon Valley.
‘I think he loved computer
programming more than he loved me, though.’

‘The bastard.
What happened next?’

‘Then I gave up nursing.
I’d only gone into it because of my parents anyway.
Mum was a midwife, Dad was a hospital manager.
But then I had this sort of epiphany—’

‘A what?
Is that like a seizure?’

‘No!
I had a change of heart – and I don’t mean a heart transplant either, before you ask.
I just decided life was too short to spend it giving bedbaths and fending off
piss-heads in A&E on a Saturday night.’

‘Ah, the rebellion moment.
Good for you.
So what did you do next?
No, don’t tell me .
.
.
Bareback-rider in a rodeo.’

She laughed.
‘Not quite,’ she said.
‘I went back to college and took up graphic design.
Got a job building websites, and never looked back.’

‘Excellent.
Carry on.
Ah – let me guess.
You were reunited with the computer programmer and made beautiful websites together.
Whispered passionate lines of code into each
other’s ears.

‘No!’
She spluttered at the thought.
‘Maybe I should have done, though.
He’s probably a kazillionaire by now, working for some faceless tech-corporation in
Seattle.’

‘Gutted.
You slipped up there, Fraser.
Want me to drive you to the airport instead?’

‘Cambridge will do, thanks,’ she said.
‘And it’s your turn now, by the way.
Fill me in on Harry Sykes: The Glory Years.
The juicier, the better.’

The journey flew by as they caught up on each other’s lives.
He told her about working in Auckland for six months as a painter and decorator, nearly marrying a Kiwi woman
in a whirlwind romance, his parents’ divorce, nearly marrying Shelley Bridges who’d been at school with them, training to be an electrician, nearly marrying a much older woman
who’d seduced him while he was rewiring her house, moving out of Larkmead, moving back to Larkmead, nearly marrying a crazy French woman, and how his New Year’s ambition was to stop
nearly marrying people.

‘That sounds a wise move,’ Caitlin said.

‘It’s got me into a lot of trouble,’ Harry said ruefully.
‘My romantic proposing habit.’
He slapped the steering wheel.
‘No, this year will be different.
Completely different.
I have a new strategy, see.
The Ten-Date Rule.’

‘Enlighten me.
How does that work then?’

He glanced sidelong at her, to see if she was taking the mick out of him, but she kept a straight face.
‘It was my sister’s idea really,’ he confessed.
‘I’ve been a
bit .
.
.
impulsive in the past and things have got kind of complicated.’

‘No.
Really?’
This time there was no getting away from the fact that she was teasing.

‘Hard to believe, I know.
So Sam, my sister, laid the law down, told me to try the Ten-Date Rule this year and stay out of trouble.
She reckons if you go on ten dates before you sleep with
a partner – or propose to them – the relationship stands a better chance.’

‘I see.
And how’s it going so far?’

‘Well, it isn’t, to be honest.
I’ve only just split up with Jade and she’s still giving me earache.
But we shall see.’
He waggled his eyebrows and pulled a comic
face, and Caitlin felt a twist of envy for whoever Harry fell for next.
He really was gorgeous, like a naughtier version of Daniel Craig – the same strong face and wide mouth, with eyes that
seemed to see right into you.
Phew!
Was it her, or was it getting hot in here?

‘Left at this junction,’ she said hurriedly, glad of a reason to stop thinking about how good-looking he was.
Calm down, she ordered herself.
And don’t flatter yourself that
this is anything other than a lift – a favour – okay?

They drove along in silence for a few minutes, Caitlin remembering the last time she’d been down this road.
It was the morning her mum died, when her eyes were gritty with lack of sleep,
her bones aching from being crunched in the bedside chair, her heart raw and broken.
The first rays of morning light were painting the sky with golden strokes; people everywhere would be yawning
and stretching, and stumbling towards coffee, with no idea that a terrible, momentous thing had just happened to her.
All Caitlin had wanted was to feel Flynn’s strong arms around her, the
comfort of love.

‘You okay?’
Harry asked.

Caitlin stared, unseeing, through the window for a moment, images from that morning falling into her mind like jewels in a kaleidoscope.
The unfamiliar car in her parking space.
The voices in
the flat, laughter pausing abruptly as she walked in.
The smell of toast and bacon, the radio playing a cheerful song, her friend Jess’s bare feet up in Flynn’s lap as they sat at the
table in dressing gowns.
Her
dressing gown.

‘Yeah, sure,’ she said dully.
‘It’s right here, then right again just after the church.’

Flynn’s flat was part of a modern block on Cromwell Road – soulless and kind of boxy, Caitlin had always thought privately, but when he had asked her to move in
with him, back in the first flush of romance, she’d been so happy and excited that its square rooms and lack of outdoor space didn’t bother her at all.
After living in her mum’s
cottage recently, with the charms of its generous garden and beamed ceilings, she was struck anew by how chilly and impersonal this place seemed.

‘Well, this is it,’ she said, pushing open the front door.
Tension knotted inside her with every echoing step along the tiled hall floor.
She had lived here for two and a half years,
but it had never really felt like home, she realized.
Even walking in now put her on edge.
She was holding her breath, half-expecting Flynn to appear and say something caustic.
Sometimes it was
only when you had moved away that you noticed how unhappy you’d become.

‘Very smart,’ Harry said politely, his eyes sliding around, as Caitlin sorted through the pile of post on the hall unit.

Flynn being Flynn, he had boxed up every last bit of her stuff and stacked it all neatly in one corner of the spare room, just waiting for her to remove it.
There were spaces like missing teeth
on the shelves where her books had been, and the mantelpiece looked boringly empty without her photos and ornaments.
Caitlin also noticed a smart slate-grey woman’s coat hanging up in the
hall that definitely wasn’t hers, and a new red toothbrush in the bathroom.
He and Jess hadn’t wasted much time then.

‘Christ, who’s that?’
Harry asked, gesturing at the large canvas on the living-room wall.
It was a black-and-white photo of Flynn’s sleeping face on the pillow; a gift
from a former girlfriend apparently.
Caitlin had always secretly loathed it.

‘That was my ex.
Flynn.’
A handsome devil, with his beautiful long, dark lashes and high, sculpted cheekbones.
But, seriously, what sort of narcissistic prick hung a ginormous canvas
of themselves in their own frigging living room?

She could tell Harry was thinking the same thing, but was too well-mannered to say so out loud.
‘What happened with you guys then?’
he asked, as they huffed and puffed down the
communal stairs, clutching the boxes of her belongings.

‘Oh .
.
.
just didn’t work out.’
She didn’t feel like giving Harry the lowdown.
He unlocked the van and pushed in his box, then took hers from her and shoved it in
alongside.

‘Want me to kill him for you?’

She laughed.
‘Don’t tempt me,’ she said.

Embarrassingly, it took a mere fifteen minutes to load up her stuff in the back of Harry’s van.
You’d have thought a person would have more to show for themselves
after thirty-two years on the planet – some decent pieces of furniture, evidence of being a proper grown-up.
Nope.
Not Caitlin.

‘Well, that was easy,’ Harry commented, as they crammed in the last two boxes.
‘Shall we head back?’

‘I’ll just have a last check around,’ Caitlin said.
‘Won’t be long.’

Up in the flat again she walked slowly through the quiet rooms one final time, touching the walls with her fingertips.
It was all so pristine, she thought, noting the obsessive way he’d
lined up the mugs in the kitchen cupboard and alphabetized the spice jars in the rack.
In the bathroom the towels were folded perfectly, as if it was a spa or a hotel room.
She thought of her
mum’s cosy cottage with its higgledy-piggledy order, the mismatched crockery, the gaudy fridge magnets from Cornwall and Tenby, the jumble of family photos everywhere.
That was a proper home,
not this.
No wonder she’d never been able to relax here.

She gazed into the bathroom mirror and saw echoes of herself there: too thin, too anxious, putting on make-up to cover her acne scars, plucking out her first white hairs before he noticed them.
Trying to be something she wasn’t, for him.
She found herself fantasizing about scrawling a lipsticked message on his mirror before she left.
UP YOURS!
maybe, or SCREW YOU!

No, that was childish.
She mustn’t.
He’d go berserk.

‘Are you ready to go?’
called Harry, who’d reappeared in the hallway.

‘Just coming,’ she replied, without moving.
Her mouth twisted as the urge grew stronger to make a last bit of mischief before leaving for good.
Should she?
Dare she?
She probably
shouldn’t.

Last few checks: nothing hanging on the back of the bathroom door, all toiletries removed from the shower.
Ah – the bathroom cabinet, she hadn’t thought to look in there.
She opened
the mirrored door and her eyes went straight to the packet of condoms inside.
Ribbed for extra pleasure, according to the box.
Oh.
Back in the day, they hadn’t used condoms; she’d gone
on the pill because he said he didn’t like the rubbery smell.
Obviously he’d got over that particular problem pretty swiftly, though.

She opened the box; not many left inside.
Tosser, she thought, flinging the last few messily over the floor in a burst of hatred.
Then she pushed his folded towels out of place and rearranged
his toiletries, knowing he’d notice.
She ran into the kitchen and muddled up the spices, putting the Cardamom Pod jar where the Turmeric should go, swapping Ginger for Cumin, Fenugreek Seeds
for Chilli Flakes.

Harry was in the living room, perched on the arm of the sofa.
(‘You’re not meant to sit on the arm, you’ll spoil the shape,’ Flynn always fussed whenever Caitlin had
forgotten and did the same thing.) ‘All done?’
he asked, and then, as Caitlin walked straight past him, taking the lid off her traffic-stopping red lipstick, ‘What are you
do—?
Caitlin!
Bloody hell!’