Wonder Women (61 page)

No, there was no doubt, she'd have to have an abortion, and she most certainly couldn't have it anywhere around here. Even if she went to a hospital three towns away, Sod's Law said she'd bump into some colleague, or a friend of a friend. Even York didn't seem far enough. No. She'd go to London, stay with Simon and get it over and done with as quickly as possible. Edward, her boss, had been nagging her to use up her annual leave. She could take a week or so and be back as if nothing had happened.

As she inched forward in the traffic, Louise decided that going to work was a really stupid idea. She'd be in a world of her own, pale and worried. She might say something silly in the branch managers' meeting, and Brian would give her his heavy-browed look across the table. He'd think he made her nervous, and that she was carrying a torch for him. There was no way she was going to put herself through that. Pulling into a convenient loading zone, she grabbed her mobile and rang her PA. She made an excuse about a domestic emergency, a burst pipe and a flooded kitchen, and said she'd do her best to be in later. She deftly nosed back into the traffic, made a swift three-point turn in a side road and headed home. Simon wouldn't be in his office till ten. She'd ring him then, and then go online and find a clinic in London. With the decisions made, the trembling stopped and she felt like herself again.

But two days later, she still hadn't done what she had set out to do. She just didn't feel she could tell Simon
everything on the phone or in an email. Eventually, she rang him and asked if she could come down and stay for a few days, saying she'd missed him and was having a few days off work. That done, she set about making the necessary arrangements. She rang a clinic not far from Simon's flat, and the woman she had spoken to seemed to think they'd be able to fit her in for an appointment at fairly short notice.

She got into London at about four in the afternoon. Simon was a fairly senior civil servant, and she knew he'd clock off at exactly five thirty. She had a key to his flat, so she popped to the nearby supermarket, bought a bunch of flowers, a bottle of wine and some dinner ingredients and let herself into his riverside apartment.

As always, her brother's home was perfect, and the vases of flowers discreetly dotted around were much nicer than the ordinary supermarket blooms she'd brought. She opened the fridge and saw he'd stocked up because she was coming: the shelves were packed with cheeses, pâté and gorgeous salad ingredients, as well as several bottles of good white wine. She smiled. What else had she expected? He was such a perfectionist. She unpacked the simple groceries she'd brought and put the kettle on. As it came to the boil, she heard his key in the door.

‘Lou! It's fabulous to see you. And the kettle's on! Best sister in the world. Won't you make me a little green tea, please? I'm parched.' He swept into his bedroom and kept
up a stream of chatter as he changed out of his suit and into pressed chinos and a crisp sky-blue shirt.

Louise always marvelled at Simon's personal reinvention. He'd completely lost his Mancunian accent, and spoke in a crisp, transatlantic one instead. He'd spent time and money learning to dress well, and he paid attention to grooming: his hair, skin and nails were always perfect. When she remembered the miserable, scrawny teenager he'd been, hiding his thin body in awful, shiny tracksuits, slouching and picking at his bad skin, she was so proud of him. They'd grown up just outside Manchester, in a grey little suburb. Simon had worked hard at school and as soon as he could, taken off for the south to study. He'd got a grant to read Social Policy at LSE, and had built a life and a career for himself in London. She supposed she'd always known deep down that he was gay, and that their lovely but conservative parents would never understand that. But in London he could openly live the life he chose. Once their parents died he'd been more open about his lifestyle. He'd had a couple of long-term relationships, but wasn't seeing anyone at the moment. Jokingly he'd said to Louise that his social life was too busy for a relationship.

She loved him to bits, but in a funny way, she felt distant from him. He'd worked so hard to make his shiny, wonderful life, and she often wondered if there was space for his slightly hectic, very northern sister in its designer perfection. She knew Simon well enough to know these worries were in her head, not his. He was always loving, rang her often and kept asking her to come down and
stay with him. She didn't accept his invitations as often as she might have: between work and her studies, things had been ridiculously busy over the last few years.

Their other sister, Rachel, lived down in Surrey with her banker husband, Richard. Simon didn't like Rachel's suburban lifestyle, so they didn't often see each other – he felt they really had nothing in common. Because he was so cold about his relationship with one sister, Louise was grateful that he made such an effort to keep her in his life.

She hadn't told him about Brian . . . it had been a momentary lapse, an out-of-character mistake she wouldn't want to admit to. And now, here she was, bringing all her horribly messy baggage to his doorstep. Her stomach lurched. Simon might need something a bit stronger than green tea to get him through what he was about to hear. She took one of his nice French bottles of wine out of the fridge, opened it and filled two large glasses to the brim.

He came out of the bedroom, smiling and turning back the cuffs on his shirt. He kissed her warmly on the cheek, noticing the glasses. ‘Wine! Much better than tea. Come and sit down.' He led her into the living room and they curled up in opposite corners of the big squashy sofa.

‘Cheers, dear,' said Simon and took a big gulp of his wine. Louise raised her glass, but the smell of the wine was so strong that it brought on a flood of nausea. She put the glass down on the coffee table and smiled brightly at her brother.

‘So how's work? Any plans for the summer? Ooh! How are Eric and Julian?'

Simon looked at her curiously. ‘Fine, possibly Rhodes, and they're very well, thank you. Considering getting married in the autumn. They send their love.'

‘Oh, send mine back, and say congratulations.' Louise knew that there was a slightly manic edge to her voice. They carried on chatting, but the conversation was stilted and halting. He asked about work, and she told him about the cutbacks they'd had and the people she'd had to let go. He kept looking at her really closely, which made her shift in her seat. How the hell was she going to bring the conversation around to what she needed to say?

She wished she could manage a big slug of the wine to calm her nerves, but the smell of it (wafting over from the coffee table . . . so powerful . . . had there ever been a glass of wine that smelt so strongly?) was making her mouth fill with saliva, and not in a good way. Suddenly, she knew for sure that if she moved suddenly or coughed, or opened her mouth to speak, she'd be sick. She felt a fine sweat break out along her hairline. Simon peered at her intently. ‘Lou, are you all right?' he asked. She managed a weak nod. He kept staring at her. Out of the blue, he gasped: ‘Oh my God, you're pregnant!'

She didn't stay to hear any more, but bolted for the bathroom. When she came out, pale and smelling of mouthwash, ten minutes later, Simon had got rid of the wine and made cups of fruit tea. She edged shamefacedly
into the room and sat back down, wedging herself tightly into the corner of the sofa.

‘I was half joking, but then I saw your face. You are, aren't you?'

She nodded. ‘How did you know?'

‘Well, the vomiting was a giveaway, but also, it's not like you to be slow with the wine.'

‘Cheek!' she said weakly.

‘Well, it's true! You usually inhale your first glass and pour another while I'm still genteelly sipping. But the main giveaway was the boobs.'

‘They're bigger, aren't they?'

‘Dear God. The Met Office has put out an alert for two missing weather balloons.'

Louise began to giggle, then hiccup and then cry. Simon knew her too well to hug her. He got up and fetched tissues, moved her teacup closer to her hand and didn't speak until she stopped.

‘So, are you going to tell me whose it is?' he asked gently.

The story just spilled out.

‘It's a guy called Brian, from work,' she began.

‘Have you been seeing him for long?'

‘I'm not seeing him. It only happened once, on a business trip. It was a mistake.'

‘Ah, accidental sex. I've heard of that. Sorry. I don't mean to make fun. But is he so awful? Would you not want him in your life?'

‘Well . . .' said Louise slowly.

‘Oh,' said Simon, and she knew he understood.

‘The thing is, well, it started at a conference we had a month or two ago. You know how hard I was studying for the MBA. I mean, I hadn't been out partying for as long as I can remember. So we went away on a team-building event in Derby, and, well, I was in the mood to let loose . . . within reason, of course.'

‘And then?'

‘Well, there were twelve branch managers and about the same number of assistant managers on the weekend, and we spent the Friday night at a murder-mystery evening in this lovely Edwardian hotel we were staying in. We all had to dress up as different characters, and everyone got into the mood quite quickly. We all drank quite a lot. I had to dress up as a “femme fatale” in a silky, black 1920s dress, and believe me, I got plenty of attention.'

‘I can believe it,' Simon smiled.

‘I just laughed it off . . . I've always worked with big groups of blokes, so I've seen every clumsy move in the book. Most guys will give it a go when they've had a few. But Brian was different. He just kept to himself. His role was a gambler, and he acted his part quite seriously, and then he just sat quietly in an armchair while everyone else played all sorts of drinking games and got more and more raucous. I knew who he was, of course, he's one of Barrett and Humphries' most successful managers. We'd met a few times, but I'd never really had a conversation with him.'

Louise took a sip of her tea and carried on. ‘I know when to stop drinking . . .'

Simon raised an eyebrow. ‘In a work context I do!' she protested. ‘I'm always very professional. Anyway, at about ten I switched to tea, and I found myself sitting next to Brian in the corner of the room. There's this woman, Natalie, who runs the Bradford branch, and she was kneeling down on the floor with her hands behind her back, trying to pick up a cereal box with her teeth. She's pretty loud at the best of times. She's got a laugh that could rattle glass, but after she'd been drinking all night she was quite a sight to behold.'

Simon giggled at this, but didn't interrupt. He nodded so that she would carry on.

‘So I laughed and I turned to Brian to say something, but he looked so serious, I didn't know what to say. He's a big guy, about six four and hunky, with this really unusual auburn hair. And then he turned to look at me, and his eyes were the most piercing blue I'd ever seen.'

‘Oh God,' Simon said.

‘Exactly. So he stared at me for a second and then he said, “I can't take any more of this. Shall we go to the bar and get a drink?” What was I going to do? I said yes. So as we walked out, one of the North Yorkshire managers, a big, red-faced bloke, yelled, “Oi, Brian! You don't get to just walk off with the best bird at the party.” And Brian said, “You're right, Gerald, I don't. You see, she's a co-worker, not a bird, and we're off to the bar to talk shop.” The blokes all laughed, but I was still impressed.

‘We went to the bar and he got us each a good brandy, and then we talked through some of the issues I'd been
dealing with since I took over my branch. He made some very useful suggestions, and he told me some of the methods he used in his own branch. He really knows his stuff, so I was very interested to hear what he had to say. Then, when we'd finished talking, he walked me back to my room, and said goodnight without touching me, and then went off to his own room.'

‘Playing the long game,' said Simon.

‘You're such a cynic.'

‘Am I right?'

‘Well . . .'

‘Carry on with the story.'

‘Well, the next day, we did all sorts of physical games and an assault course. Obviously I'm quite fit, and, let's face it, a bit slimmer than most of the blokes, so I did okay, and we had a mock awards ceremony that night, and I got a special mention. So that night was even more drunken than the first one, but somehow I kept noticing Brian, and he was alone and quiet again. I found myself sitting next to him again and chatting. He was easy to talk to, but that night, he seemed a bit preoccupied. He kept stopping in the middle of sentences, and looking into the distance.

‘After a while I asked him if he was okay, and he said, “Yes. Just, you know. Family stuff.” I didn't want to pry, but he still looked so serious that eventually I said, “Everything okay?” And he said, “Well, no. I'm . . . er . . . well, I'm about to leave my wife.” I said, “Really? I'm sorry,” and I tried to sound compassionate and professional, as
a colleague should, but inside I was thinking . . . interesting . . . veeeeeery interesting indeed! Anyway, he told me that his wife, Lisa, had some problems with depression, and alcohol. If it weren't for the kids . . .'

‘He's got kids?' Simon said, alarmed.

‘Emily is ten and Charlotte is eight. Anyway, he started telling me how awful his marriage was and how he couldn't carry on, though his kids mean the world to him. They didn't love each other, and they hadn't . . . you know . . . for years.'

‘Of course they hadn't,' Simon said cynically.

‘I'm just telling you what he said. It was very convincing at the time. He just stared at me with those blue eyes and said, “She's just drifted further and further away, and I've tried everything. Arguing, counselling for her, counselling for us as a couple . . . medication . . . I miss her, but it's just not possible to get her back.” And then he looked like he was going to cry. I didn't know what to say. I reached out my hand to pat his arm and he grabbed it and held it tight, like he was drowning. And then he said, “So this is the end. When I get back from the conference, I'll tell her. And within a fortnight, I'll have moved into my own place.” And then he squeezed my hand and said softly, “Thank you. Thank you so much for listening. I haven't told anyone that before.”'