One Step Too Far (19 page)

After Dominic hung up, saying he’d call again soon, Caroline sat immobile. He hadn’t even offered to come to see her, and she suspected he hadn’t believed her when she’d told him about the baby, how she’d lost it, it seemed too convenient somehow. He did call though, as he said he would, a few times more. They went out for dinner each time and although always apologetic he was never on time again. The dinners were awkward, excruciating. Caroline insisted he come home with her the first time, and they tried to have sex but it was embarrassing, humiliating, and he didn’t stay the night. Eventually Caroline couldn’t stand the pretence, this imprint of their once real relationship, and she ended it late one night, by text. Dominic didn’t object, and Caroline wondered again just what transformation had occurred in him the night of the bombing. Years later she heard through friends that he’d married someone called Martin, and that knowledge along with her lost baby haunted her forever.

32

I sit by the river and the sun is shining and I’ve decided to confide in Simon, so I start to open my mouth to say – what? That I’m not really Cat Brown, I’m Emily Coleman, that I’m a fake and a fraud and a deserter? Yes, why not, it might do me good to tell the truth at last. As the first words form I look down without thinking and there it is on my phone in all its digital unequivocalness:

14.14

May 7

I gag and scrape back my chair and run out of the restaurant as fast as I can. I hold the vomit in my mouth until I reach the river bank and then I spew, all over the railing, and it spatters back at me and I collapse to the floor into my own puke, and through my humiliation I wish for the millionth time I was dead.

I’m lying in bed at home in Shepherds Bush and although my clothes are gone my hair – or is it my mouth? – stinks of vomit. Angel is sat on a chair across the room watching telly, and as I stir she gets up and comes over to me. I feel ashamed, although I'm not quite sure why yet. I remember that Simon and – who? A waiter? A passing tourist? – helped me to my feet and staggered me along the river bank to where a taxi could pick us up. I wasn’t unconscious (nor was I last year), but I was in the same hysterical state and Simon, I now realise, must have called a doctor to give me something, the drug fug is unmistakeable. It must be hours later now and I think with a lurch of Tiger, the awards do, and I’m suddenly back in the present, not stuck in my recurring nightmare, and I wonder whether I’ve passed a milestone and really will get better at last.

“I’ve got to get up,” I say. “I’m meant to be at the Dorchester this evening.”

“Don’t be daft, babe,” says Angel. “You’re not going anywhere tonight.”

A whole year.

It’s as if I need to get up now, get on with the rest of my life, there’s no time to lose. It’s like I’ve moved beyond despair into – what? Acceptance? I’ll never have my old life back and although I knew it before I don’t think I felt it in my heart, even though I thought I did, if that makes any sense. I try to get out of bed but feel too groggy, and fall back onto the pillows. Angel pulls the duvet over me.

“You stay there, babe. I’m going to make you a nice cup of tea.” She squeezes my hand and leaves the room, shutting the door gently.

I wonder how Simon knew my address, I’ve never got round to giving it at work, they still have my Finsbury Park one. He must have looked on my phone and rung someone. I only have people from the agency and clients in my phone, and a few vague friends like Bev and Jerome from the house. And Angel. He must have thought that weird – hardly any friends, no Mum, no Dad. I’ve talked about Angel enough times and now I realise he must have been here at the flat earlier, they must have met each other, and I feel absurdly jealous.

Angel comes back in with a pink mug where the man gets naked if the drink is hot. I think she’s trying to cheer me up and so I smile accommodatingly.

“You never told me Simon was such a looker,” says Angel.

“Oh,” I say. “D’you think so?” and I think again
keep your hands off him
, and I wonder what’s the matter with me.

“He was really worried about you, babe,” she continues. “Is he a tincy bit in love with you?”

“No,” I answer, too quickly.

“What happened anyway?” she says. “You turn up here drugged up to the eyeballs and covered in God knows what. I thought we were meant to be getting healthy this week.” Angel laughs nervously and I can tell she’s worried sick about me, and it makes me more determined to show her I’m OK, that I’m through the worst. My phone rings on the bedside table. Angel gets to it before me.

“It’s Simon,” she says. “Shall I answer?”

“Yes,” I say, meaning no, and for the first time I realise how dangerous it is to have a friend as beautiful as Angel.

“Hi Simon ... No, it’s Angel... Oh, I’m fine, thanks (giggle)... She’s just come round, she’s OK, I think... Yes... No (giggle) I’ve told her that’s madness... Oh. OK, that’s kind of you, I’ll ask her... Do you want to have a word with her?... Oh, OK, maybe see you later then, bye.”

“What was that all about?” I say. The only time I’ve been cross with Angel before is the day we went shopping and I found out she was a kleptomaniac, and I got over that pretty quickly.

“Simon says that if you feel better later you can always come down for a drink after the dinner. Apparently someone else can’t make it now – Luke I think he said – so he said if I wanted to come with you that would be fine.” She says it guilelessly, with no apparent agenda, and I feel ashamed at my jealousy. I have just two friends in the world and I don’t want them to find each other, how childish is that? Maybe it’s the drugs the doctor gave me, I really don’t feel quite right. It’s still May the 6
^th
, I should be sad, sombre, but instead I feel mildly euphoric and groggy and paranoid all at the same time.

“I don’t know,” I say moodily. I swing my legs round to get out of bed and this time Angel doesn’t try to stop me, she seems fine about me going out now.

“You have a shower,” she says. “And let’s see how you feel later.” I grunt and stagger to the bathroom.

33

Emily stood staring into the cot at her sleeping baby, as if transfixed. She’d just opened the curtains and the little room was bright with late summer sunshine: it was time for him to wake up, they were off to see her in-laws in Buxton. She lowered the cot side so she could reach in and lift him out and as she did so the Winnie the Pooh characters on his mobile shook gently, as though they were awakening too. She hesitated before picking him up, examining him again, as if he was a miracle, which to her he was – perfectly rounded head with soft downy hair leant gently to one side, cheek so plump it was like a cushion for his shoulder; arms flung out as if in submission, elbows at right-angles so his little fists were level with his nose; belly moving up and down inside the plain white baby grow as his breath gently rasped (she’d never known babies snored); little fat legs splayed wide open, creased at the knees; the soles of his feet, in tiny white socks that were still too big for him, coming together and almost meeting. The cot was white, the sheet and blanket were white, he looked so clean and pure she wanted to stay in this moment, look at him forever.

Emily was amazed at how motherhood had affected her, had made her see everything differently, more simply somehow. She hadn’t even wanted to get pregnant really, and although Ben had been keen for ages she’d put him off – she hadn’t wanted to upset Caroline, which she saw now was ridiculous. She loved everything about being a mother, the smells, the warmth, the unconditional nature of how she gave herself to her son, even when he’d driven her mad with his bawling, even when she was dog-tired from the day. She loved how having him had brought Ben and her closer, if that had been possible, and even Caroline had been wonderful about it. She didn’t deserve to be this happy.

As the light gently woke him, he opened his eyes and blinked up at her and then instead of crying like he usually did his face split into a gummy smile and she leaned down and picked him up and held him as he cooed and gurgled. She thought then about how fast the time had passed, how she was meant to be going back to work in a couple of months, she’d booked the nursery place already. She’d probably have to wake him some mornings – she bet he wouldn’t be smiling then – and it would all be such a rush to get him fed and dressed and out the door. As it drew closer she found she was dreading, a little more each day, the thought of going back. It was probably in this moment, sat amongst his teddies on the couch in his bedroom, in that beautiful moment of stillness, that she realised, and she wondered just how she was going to tell Ben.

In the end she just said it, later that night as they lay in bed, their feet kicking, pressing against each other’s.

“Ben, I don’t want to go back to work,” she said.

Her husband shifted then and propped himself up on his shoulder, so he could look at her properly in the dusky light. He took her hand.

“I know I always said I wanted to, but now I can’t bear to think of leaving him in a nursery. He needs me, his mother.”

“Wow, you’ve changed your tune,” said Ben and he leaned down and kissed her on the nose.

“You don’t mind then?” she said.

“Of course not.”

“We’ll have way less money. What about our holidays, us getting a bigger house one day, running two fancy cars? We’ll probably have to sell one.”

“Emily," said Ben. "I couldn’t care less. We have our family, that’s all that matters.”

“Are you sure?” she asked. “You’re not just being bloody nice as usual?”

“No,” he said. “I’d prefer it. I just never wanted to ask you, you didn’t seem like you’d want to give up your job. I really couldn’t give a shit about the money. We’ll cope.”

“I’ll quote you on that when we’re eating bread and dripping and have holes in our shoes,” Emily said, but she felt so ridiculously happy she didn’t even care if that’s what they ended up doing.

34

I stand in the shower and wash the vomit from my hair. I feel strange still – empty, cleansed, I can’t explain it. Free at last? I wonder what kind of drugs Simon’s doctor gave me, why my legs are so wobbly and my mind is so still. I borrow some of Angel’s pineapple face scrub and it zings my face but still I can’t feel anything. Is it finally over?

As I step out the shower my legs feel stronger and I think of the new jade satin dress in my wardrobe, split to the thigh, my silver stilettos – maybe I should go out after all, it might even be fun if Angel’s going.

Fun?
Who am I kidding?

It’s still only 7.30, we could be there in an hour, and anyway I’m hungry now. I hardly ate anything of the seafood platter, I was a lousy ad for their chilli crab claws, and the thought makes me giggle, and the emotion punches through the fog in my mind.

I swan back into my bedroom, where Angel is watching some terrible soap. I do a twirl in my towel. “Cinders, you shall go to the ball,” I shout and Angel looks at me oddly, pauses for a long while, as if she’s not sure what to do, and finally says, “OK, I’ll go and get ready.”

35

Until he tried to kill her, Angel lived with Anthony in a loft apartment at Tower Bridge. He’d met her playing poker with clients one night, and although Angel didn’t usually pick up punters from the casino, it wasn’t her style, Anthony was persistent. As he was leaving he persuaded her to give him her number, and then he called her every hour for the rest of the night, until she knocked off at six.

The next day 40 red roses arrived and although Angel knew it all seemed far too good to be true, she went online and looked up the number’s significance and found it meant, “My love for you is genuine.” Angel was flattered, fluttery, and found she couldn’t say no when he begged her to call in sick the very next night. He picked her up in his Maserati and took her to dinner in a restaurant in the City with views across London. And then he took her back to his apartment to champagne on ice and floaty jazzy tunes she’d never heard, and when he led her onto the balcony overlooking the river to finally kiss her the perfection of the romance was complete. She stayed that night, dressed in one of his T-shirts, and he tucked her into his armpit like a precious doll, and she was the luckiest girl in the world.

Anthony ran his own venture capital firm. He was wealthy certainly (but, as she realised afterwards, in that precarious way ostentatiously rich people often are) and he was handsome, charming. Angel was besotted, and after just a few weeks she stopped going home at all, and she gave up working at the casino, and she lived like a princess, except there was a pea under her bed, waiting to be discovered.

Things started to change for Angel after the first blissful three or four months of living together. Anthony had already started taking her to client dinners, introducing her as “my little Cockney Angel,” and although she thought it was a bit disrespectful she didn’t take it too seriously, she was sure it was affectionate. She’d sit demurely with his guests in swanky restaurants and laugh in all the right places, throwing back her pretty head, exposing her slender neck, knowing the effect she had on these men, after all she was used to it. One night, when Anthony was outside taking a call, Angel had picked up from one of the guests that maybe things weren’t quite so rosy at Anthony’s firm, and so she'd asked him about it when they got home.

“What the fuck do you mean?” he said.

“Er, Richard was saying he was worried about the Fitzroy deal, I just wondered what he meant?”

“What the fuck’s it got to do with you?”

Angel decided two fucks were enough. She stood tall, all five feet two of her. “Don’t you talk to me like that,” she said. “Who do you think you are?”

Anthony had given her a look of such pure hatred at this point that it turned her stomach even more than the swearing. He reined in his fury and got up from the depths of the sofa and walked steadily towards the spare bedroom. He paused for a while at the threshold, as if relenting, and then he changed his mind and went in anyway, and he slammed the door so hard behind him that one of his jazz portraits in the hallway fell off and smashed, right across the gleeful smile on Charlie Parker’s face.