Second Chance (17 page)

Her first stop is the hairdresser. ‘I need to cover the grey,’ she tells Rob the colourist, ‘and then I need a trim.’

Rob purses his lips as he examines Olivia’s never-been-touched hair. ‘God, you’ve got a lot of grey,’ he murmurs, almost to himself as he picks up her hair. ‘Natural colour, or can I throw in a few lowlights just to add a bit of depth?’

‘Whatever you want.’ Olivia shrugs. ‘I’m in your hands now. Knock yourself out.’

Two hours later, Olivia stares at herself in the mirror in awe. Chestnut and copper streak her hair; and Kim,
the junior stylist, has cut long layers into her bob that sweep her cheeks and make her look years younger.

Kim and Rob stand behind her, arms crossed, waiting for Olivia’s reaction. They have dealt with women like her before – women who come in wearing jeans and boots, who don’t possess a scrap of make-up, and believe that natural is better. They have performed makeovers on these women before, and are never quite sure what the outcome will be. Some have cried with joy at how much younger, how much better they look; and others have spat in fury and refused to pay, demanding they strip the colour off the hair immediately, somehow put it back the way it was.

Olivia, thank God, is one of the good ones. She started smiling halfway through the blow-dry when her new colour emerged, and is now clearly delighted.

‘I love it,’ she squeals. ‘I love, love, love it,’ and they hand her a mirror to see the back, laughing as she stares with obvious delight at herself and her new swinging, shiny hair.

‘Now just remember what I said,’ Rob says as he walks her to reception to pay. ‘Lipstick and blush, little black dress and a lot of confidence.’

Olivia turns to him. ‘Thank you so much,’ she says, spontaneously reaching out and giving him a hug. ‘Wish me luck!’ And with that she’s off.

Her Beetle zips through the London traffic, and at every traffic light Olivia stretches up and checks herself in the rear-view mirror. It’s not that she’s vain, it’s that she can’t believe how different she looks. She is, just as Rob
suggested, wearing a black wrap-dress that she got on sale last winter and wore to George’s office Christmas bash. She felt beautiful that night and loved feeling George’s pride as he introduced her to his colleagues at work. She tried not to think about it tonight as she pulled the dress from the back of the wardrobe, tried not to think how that pride and love that she was so sure was in his eyes could turn so quickly to dust.

The dress should have swamped her, given how much weight she has lost, but she merely wraps it tighter and it’s perfect. She has added black tights, low kitten heels, and a chunky amber necklace that used to be her mother’s, and resisted the urge to pull everything off and start again with her usual comfortable uniform of jeans and boots.

In the old days, she would have phoned Tom and they would have laughed about it together. Wear the black dress, for God’s sake,’ he would have said. ‘Make an effort. Show him what great legs you’ve got.’

‘I hope you’re watching, Tom.’ She had looked up at the sky just before she climbed into the car. ‘And I hope you like the outfit.’ Olivia had performed a small twirl in the driveway of her house and had blown a kiss towards the sky. ‘Wish me luck,’ she’d whispered, and then she was off, navigating the Edgware Road once more.

There are pools of men huddled at the bar, and Olivia’s first instinct is to turn around and run home. She can’t do this. Has never been any good at this. Admittedly she became well versed in navigating blind dates
pre-George, but she was so much younger and had so much more confidence.

Some of the men turn and look at her, a couple of them approvingly, and she takes a deep breath and looks around, hoping to see Fred, hoping to know instantly which one he is. Sitting at a table in the corner is a man reading the
Financial Times
. Olivia squints at him as he looks up and catches her eye, his face breaking into a huge grin.

Please, God, she whispers a silent prayer in her mind as this tall, broad-shouldered athlete of a man comes over displaying a perfect American smile – huge white teeth, and boy-next-door good looks. Please, God, she whispers, let this be him, because God knows they don’t make them like that over here.

‘Olivia!’ There’s no question in his voice but, of course, she had sent him a picture of herself, of course he would know what she looks like.

‘Hi!’ she says shyly, gratitude and delight in her eyes as he envelops her in a bear hug, making her feel very small and delicate and feminine. How ridiculous, she tells herself, turning her head to the side and resting it for a second against a muscled shoulder. How silly I am being, but oh how lovely, what a spectacular specimen of a man. Fred steps back to grin at her, then ushers her over, a large, strong hand resting in the small of her back as he guides her to her chair.

‘Wow!’ he says, holding out the chair for her to sit down. ‘You look great,’ and as he looks around for a waiter to take their order for drinks, Olivia finds herself smiling. This is going to be a good evening after all.

‘Tom was right,’ Fred says, as the waiter places one Cosmopolitan and one vodka martini on the table.

‘Right about what?’

‘Right about the fact that I should meet you.’ He smiles, raising his glass for a toast. ‘To new friendships, and to Tom, wherever he may be.’

Olivia smiles even as the tears well up in her eyes. ‘To Tom,’ she echoes, and Fred passes her a napkin, which she dabs against her eyes, looking up and blinking furiously until the tears go away.

‘I’m so sorry.’ She smiles again. ‘It still gets me at the most unexpected times.’

‘Of course it does,’ Fred says. ‘It gets me too, and I was just a work colleague. I know how hard it must be for his friends.’

‘So hard.’ Olivia nods. ‘You think that time must be the great healer, that people wouldn’t say it all the time if it weren’t true, but I’m still waiting for time to kick in.’

‘You know, when it happened, it was all I could think about for days. I became, like, addicted to the news. I’m serious! I was watching everything, reading everything about the attacks, the survivors, the families of those who had been lost, and still now I think about it every day, but not all day, not the way I did, like, immediately afterwards.’

‘That’s true,’ Olivia says. ‘I do think about it too, but not all day, not any more. Still, Tom wouldn’t want us to sit here and cry over him, so let’s talk about dinner. What do you feel like eating? There’s a wonderful restaurant here in the hotel.’

‘I know, I already checked it out, but I feel like something more fun, something different. Apparently there’s a great noodle place round the corner, which sounds great.’

Olivia grins. ‘Wagamama. It’s one of my favourites, and much more my speed. Let’s go,’ and with that they drink up and leave.

As soon as they walk in Olivia feels at home. All dressed up in the bar of the Dorchester is about as far removed from Olivia’s life as you can get. Not that those places are altogether unfamiliar to her – a large part of her childhood was spent in the smartest of London restaurants – but she had never felt entirely comfortable as a child, and was relieved, upon reaching adulthood, that she actually had a choice and didn’t have to frequent those places unless absolutely necessary.

She realizes as she sinks down on the bench opposite Fred, squeezed between strangers busy slurping noodles, that she has been playing a role tonight, something she is never comfortable doing.

‘You know what?’ Fred looks around the room, taking it all in. ‘I wish I wasn’t in this damn suit. I’d much rather be in jeans and sneakers.’

Olivia starts to laugh. ‘Thank you for saying that. I was just thinking I wish I was in my jeans and boots. When I’m all dressed up, I feel like I act differently, that I’m more formal and trying to be someone I’m not.’

Fred grins at her. ‘Same here. Tell you what,’ he looks at his watch, ‘how long would it take you to run home and throw on jeans, then get back here?’

‘About half an hour if I rush.’ Olivia smiles.

‘Okay. Done. I’ll run back to the hotel, and I’ll see you back here in thirty minutes.’

‘Are you sure you’re not going to do a runner on me?’ Olivia asks quickly, a hint of nervousness in her voice. ‘This isn’t another way of saying you think this is going to be an awful evening so let’s end it now?’

Fred looks shocked. ‘Are you kidding me? This is going to be a great evening. Let’s just get it started on the right foot. Hey, maybe we can catch a movie after we eat.’

‘That’s the best idea I’ve heard all week.’ Olivia laughs, and when they stand up and thread their way through the restaurant to the door, she doesn’t mind in the slightest that Fred again places a hand gently on her back to guide her.

In fact, if she has to be honest, she’d say the shiver that runs up and down her spine is something she hasn’t felt in a very long time.

Olivia wakes up early, as she always does, and lies in bed for a while replaying the events of last night. She turns her head slightly to see Fred, face squashed into the pillow, snoring gently, still sound asleep. Yes. It was real. Yes. She did bring him home to her flat. Yes. She had sex for the first time since George. And yes. It was fanfuckingtastic. Oh shit.

What now?

Not that Olivia has ever had any firm or fast rules when it comes to dating, but she’s never been the sort of girl who engages in one-night stands, and given that
her mother utters phrases like ‘Why buy the cow…’ it’s hardly surprising that she doesn’t exactly go around jumping into bed with near-strangers.

But Fred doesn’t feel like a stranger. If anything, he feels like an old friend. Their email exchanges have been so frank, so honest, and in the days leading up to their meeting, so intimate, they seem to have propelled this… what, friendship? Relationship? Fling?… into a space that Olivia isn’t sure she is ready for.

Not to mention how strange it is to have someone in her bed who isn’t George. How odd to feel Fred’s body, how delicious to have someone so young, so strong, and so very eager to please her.

She was the one, last night, who invited him back, ostensibly to see ‘how real people live in London, not like the tourists stuck in your posh hotels,’ but in fact she knew exactly how it would play out, had been ready from the beginning of the evening, although she would never admit it.

Why else would she have ensured there were fresh sheets on the bed, candles scattered around the room, no dirty laundry visible anywhere in the bathroom?

She was making coffee when Fred kissed her. He came up behind her and put his arms around her – such strong arms, so very different from George’s – and she tensed slightly, unsure of what to do, how to stand in this unfamiliar position, when he took the decision out of her hands by turning her to face him and leaning down to kiss her.

What a wonderful night it was. And now… what? Morning. Isn’t this when it is supposed to be awkward,
difficult? Isn’t he supposed to wake up and be cold, regret what happened, get out of the flat as quickly as possible?

Olivia gets up and goes to make coffee in the kitchen. Under normal circumstances it would be Nescafé Gold Blend, instant of course, but – and yet another clue that this outcome isn’t altogether unexpected – she has fresh ground coffee to put in the cafetière and huge buttery croissants in the fridge.

‘Morning.’ Olivia jumps, turning to see a dishevelled Fred sleepily padding through the kitchen in his boxer shorts. God, she thinks, taking in his chest, the muscles in his legs. He is just so completely delicious.

‘Morning,’ she says, a touch frostily, but only because she is not sure where this is going and doesn’t want to be humiliated by coming on too strong when he may be getting ready to cold-shoulder her and walk out of the door, never to be heard from again.

‘So, Saturday morning, huh? What do we have planned today?’ And he comes up to her and wraps her in his arms, bending down to kiss her on the lips, and Olivia folds into him feeling warm and secure and oh so very, very good. She has forgotten, in fact, quite how good this can feel.

‘Thank you, God,’ she whispers, as she hands Fred a towel to take a shower. ‘And thank you, Tom,’ she grins at the ceiling, ‘he’s pretty great, after all. You did good,’ and when Fred hollers at her to join him, she slips her robe off her shoulders and opens the steamed-up door.

‘Hellooooo?’ Olivia pushes open the front door and her niece and nephew trip in behind her. ‘Holly? Anyone here?’ She follows the sound of a television and walks through to the living room where Daisy and Oliver are comatose in front of a cartoon.

‘Hey, guys,’ Olivia says, as her niece and nephew move like zombies towards the sofa, planting themselves next to the other kids without taking their eyes off the screen for a second, without even saying hello.

‘Where’s Mum?’

No answer.

‘Where’s Mum? Oliver?’

‘Upstairs.’ He gestures feebly with a hand, and Olivia sighs and goes to find Holly.

The problem with grief is that it doesn’t go away. As time ticks on, the rawness dissipates somewhat, and you find yourself settling into the pain, becoming accustomed to it, wearing it around your shoulders like an old, heavy scarf.

And life has to go on. There are children to look after, meals to cook, cards to illustrate, playdates to arrange. Grief has to be filed away, compartmentalized, allowed out only when the rest of your life is sufficiently
organized, when you can have time to yourself to give in to the pain.

Both Holly and Olivia allow themselves that time for grief, but as the weeks go by they are finding they are bound less by their shared grief, or indeed their shared history, but more, in fact, by a true friendship, by respect, admiration and a delight in one another’s company. A delight that led them to find each other, and to swear they would be best friends for ever, all those years ago.

Holly hears the footsteps on the stairs and quickly minimizes the email she was writing, so what is left on the screen is an innocuous picture of a ladybird.

‘Hey, you!’ Olivia walks over and gives her a hug. ‘What are you doing?’