The Day Of Second Chances (20 page)

Lydia re-entered the room; Honor could tell by her tread before she saw the movement. ‘I … I have these,' the girl said, sitting down beside Honor. She put something in hr grandmother's hands. A bundle of paper, perhaps envelopes. Letters.

‘The handwriting is the same as in your book,' Lydia said. ‘That's what made me think, but I couldn't remember where I'd put them.'

Honor sifted them in her hands. She moved them and held them to the light. She could see Paul's handwriting on them, every one of them, firm thick black strokes writing out Stephen's name and address. The address in Brickham, the house Stephen and Jo had lived in when he was lecturing at the university here.

‘They haven't been opened,' Honor said.

‘No,' said Lydia. ‘I didn't – I never. I didn't know who they were from. Are they from his father, do you think? My grandfather? The return address is in California.'

‘Yes.' How strange, to touch something else that Paul had touched, now, so much later. The envelopes were heavy, good quality: greeting cards rather than letters.

She had had a letter like this, before Stephen died. Before she had argued with her son. It had the same handwriting, the same stamp.

Lydia drew in a breath. ‘I … I used to wait for the post. When I was a little girl. I got into the habit of it. I liked to get it first thing. After Dad died, I collected anything that had his name on it and I kept it. I put it in a special drawer. I think I thought … I thought that if I kept them, he might come back for them. That's silly, isn't it?'

‘It is silly, but understandable,' said Honor, who had some recent experience in denying reality.

‘I have all sorts of things in there – mostly junk mail and bank statements, I think. I never opened them or read them. But these ones came every Christmas. I suppose I thought they were Christmas cards.'

‘Perhaps they are.'

‘I don't know if we have any from before Dad died. Mum threw away all his letters and things. She said they were too painful to read. She only kept a few of his books and his wristwatch.'

The stamps were American. There were eight letters. ‘Have they stopped arriving?'

‘I think so. I mean, this was all I could find. They're all addressed to our old house before we moved here, so maybe they just haven't been forwarded. He must have …'

‘He must have thought Stephen was still alive.'

‘Yeah,' said Lydia. ‘Did you know he was writing to Dad?'

‘No.' Stephen had never told her about the letters. Was that her fault, too?

‘Should we – do you think that we should read them?'

Eight letters from her lover to his son, unread. Honor closed her eyes and she battled with herself. But she was old, now, and who would it hurt, to touch the thread, to let it spill through her fingers?

‘You read them,' Honor said. ‘You read them to me. One at a time. Please.'

PARENTS' EVENINGS WOULD
be easier if not for the other parents.

The ones she didn't know well weren't hard; they were mostly very nice people, and Jo enjoyed exchanging a few pleasantries over the plastic cups of orange squash that the school put out for them in the gym whilst they waited between appointments. They might know the old gossip about her and Richard, but they wouldn't say anything. They would pretend not to know. Politeness and small talk gave you a screen, and the subject in common of the school, and exams. And there were plenty of single parents around, or parents there without their partners, so Jo didn't feel inconspicuous being by herself.

It was the people like Helen and Logan Travers who you had to watch out for.

‘Jo!' Helen came rushing up to her from the gym entrance, Logan at her heels. Their daughter, Erin, lagged behind. ‘How are you?' She kissed Jo on either cheek.

‘I'm great, how are you?'

‘We saw Richard, and heard he'd proposed to Tatiana.'

Helen's face was the picture of sympathy and concern.

‘I'm absolutely fine with it. Iris is excited about being a bridesmaid.'

‘And how is Lydia coping?'

Lydia probably thinks good riddance, and I can't much blame her
. ‘Lydia's coping really well, thanks.'

‘It must be so hard, to lose two father figures like that.'

‘Lydia misses her father, of course. We both do.'

‘And you must be lonely!'

‘I don't really have a chance to get lonely, with the children, and Lydia's grandmother is staying with us for the moment, too, while she recovers from surgery.'

‘Her grandmother? You are a saint! I think of you often, Jo. I'm so sorry I've been so busy.'

‘We must get together for dinner soon,' said Logan. ‘We have a friend or two you might like to meet.'

They'd used to have dinner parties together, before Richard left; sometimes their daughter Erin and Lydia would have a sleepover, too. Jo pictured what it would be like now, sitting next to one of Logan's friends, a divorcé or confirmed bachelor who would be no more interested in matchmaking than she herself would be. He would, of course, have been prepped by Logan and Helen about the sad breakdown of her marriage.

‘Yes,' she said, ‘we must. Hello, Erin, how are you?'

‘Fine,' said Erin loudly. She was wearing tracksuit bottoms, slung low enough to show the top of her pants, and she was staring straight at Jo with a strange smile on her face. At least it was good to know that Lydia wasn't the only teenager who acted weird sometimes.

‘Erin's doing ever so well,' Helen said. ‘We were thrilled with her predicted grades. Lydia's must be wonderful too – so much to live up to! Isn't she with you?'

‘She's looking after her brother and sister. I've only seen the English and French teachers, but so far, so good.'

‘Come along, darling,' Helen said, ‘we've got Mr Treadbull now. I have no idea why we have to have conferences with the PE teachers! Lovely to see you, Jo, let's set a date for dinner, yes?'

‘Of course,' Jo said, making a mental resolution not to answer the phone if Helen rang.

But she wouldn't ring. And if she did, Jo would answer.

She checked the slip of paper with her appointments on it. The school ran their parent-teacher evenings like a production line, with the teachers arranged in the gym and the dining hall behind rows of desks, and a bell ringing to signal the end of each appointment. She had Geography next, with Mr Graham, who was also Lydia's new tutor since Miss Wheeler had left at Christmas; according to the little map she had, he was sitting in the back right corner of the dining hall. She headed over, so she'd be on time.

As usual she looked around for Avril's mum, but as usual, she didn't see her. Mrs Toller had only come to one or two parents' evenings in their secondary-school career so far; in fact, that was one of the few times that Jo had actually met her. Often Avril helped Lydia babysit while Jo went to the school, but tonight she hadn't turned up, and Lydia had snapped Jo's head off when she'd commented on it. Jo had thought maybe that Avril was with her mum instead. It was an important parents' evening, the last one before the girls started their GCSE exams.

But there was no sign of her.

Jo frowned. There was something wrong there. All the meals Avril had at their house; all the time she spent with them. Not that Jo minded, at all. She loved Avril; she was like another daughter – at times distinctly more pleasant to her than her own daughter was. But Jo worried about her. It was clear she wasn't getting what she needed at home, if she spent so much time at their house. And yet she couldn't broach the subject. Avril deflected it, and so did Lydia.

She resolved to try again, when she had the chance. She respected Avril's boundaries, but Avril was still a child. She needed someone looking after her.

Geography was over by the serving hatches. The air smelled of cabbage and chip fat, the same smell Jo remembered from her own school dining hall. Teenagers these days seemed so complicated, so much more sophisticated than Jo had been, but some things, at least, never changed. Chips for school dinners.

The bell rang, and Jo made her way towards the back of the room, where a couple were just leaving a desk occupied by a man in a blue suit, with glasses and curly brown hair.

It was Marcus.

He hadn't looked up yet. He was writing something down on one of the papers that littered his desk. He had a plastic cup of the same orange squash she'd just been drinking; his tie was loosened, and the glasses she'd never seen him wearing before were horn-rimmed, round. Sexy.

She couldn't breathe.

The bell stopped ringing. Had it been going all this time? It echoed in her ears, and at that moment, Marcus looked up and saw her.

He had half a smile on his face, but it melted away. His eyes widened.

Around her, other parents were moving, going to desks, shaking hands, sitting down. Keeping their appointments, like she needed to keep hers. Feeling like a robot, she carried on forward.

It couldn't be him. He might teach here – he'd never mentioned what job he did – but he couldn't be Lydia's teacher. Her tutor.

But the name label on his desk said
MR GRAHAM – GEOGRAPHY
.

He stood as she approached. The scrape of his chair on the wooden floor seemed very loud.

‘You're …' He cleared his throat and checked the list on his desk. ‘You're Lydia's mother?'

She nodded. He started to hold out his hand, but then he seemed to think better of it.

‘Why … don't you sit down?'

There was a patch of pink on each of his cheeks. Jo took a seat, her limbs stiff, and he sat down across from her. They looked at each other.

Petals in his hair, and she'd reached across and kissed him.
Yesterday
.

‘It's good to see you again,' he said.

‘How—' she began, and needed to swallow. ‘How is Lydia doing in Geography?'

‘She's fine.' He ran his hand through his hair. ‘Lydia Levinson. Yes, she's a very bright girl. Doing French A level early, top sets in everything. Obviously I … obviously I haven't been teaching her for long. But she shows definite aptitude for the subject, and she's doing well across the board. Wants to go to Cambridge, she says.'

‘Yes, like her father did.'

‘Jo, I didn't know you were her mother.'

‘I didn't know you worked here.'

‘Yes. Since … I started here at Christmas.'

The taste of his lips, damp with rain.

‘So … is there anything I can do to support Lydia at home?' She had already asked the same question of the English and French teachers.

‘Well, with the exams coming up, obviously she needs to revise. And she … she could do with a bit more focus, especially lately.'

‘I'm not surprised, if Avril's in the class with her. The two of them chat constantly. They're best friends.'

‘That might be it. Yes, maybe. You … um, are you all right, Jo?'

‘Fine, thank you.'

‘Because yesterday I didn't mean …' He glanced around the room, seemingly remembering their surroundings. ‘Ah. Would you like to see her mock results?' He shuffled papers. She looked at the piece he passed over to her, but couldn't understand the figures on it.

‘She … what are you predicting for her in Geography?'

‘We're hoping for an A-star, if she keeps her focus.' He met her eyes again, and then looked back down at the paper. ‘Of course, that's easier said than done.'

‘I understand.' Where was the bell? Jo twisted her damp hands together.

‘Jo—'

The bell went. She stood. ‘Well, thank you. I'll talk to Lydia about paying more attention in lessons.'

He scrambled to his feet as well. ‘Yes. Right, thank you. I'll, um … see you.'

She nodded again and fled.

She was still a wreck when she got home. Oscar and Iris were watching
Rastamouse
in their pyjamas and Lydia and Honor were sitting on the sofa together, apparently looking at Christmas cards. Normally this bit of family harmony would please her, but she felt shaky inside and desperately humiliated and wanted nothing more than a very large glass of wine.

Lydia jumped up as soon as Jo came in. ‘I'm going out,' she said.

Honor stood and began to make her way back to her room, the cards under her arm.

The wine would have to wait. Jo sat on the carpet, pulled Iris onto her lap and watched
Rastamouse
with her and Oscar. The storyline about missing cheese did nothing to distract her from her thoughts. Nor did bedtime stories, or tucking in, or kisses. She did it all on autopilot. By the time she had come downstairs to the kitchen and poured a large glass of pinot grigio, she had resolved two things. No, three.

First, she would be friendly and breezy with Marcus. He was her neighbour, and Lydia's teacher, so she couldn't ignore him completely, but she would be distant. She would not linger in the garden or gaze out of her kitchen window or take him up on his offer of a cup of tea, if he were polite enough to make it again, which was unlikely to say the least.

Second, she would not refer to what had happened between them in the garden.

And third, she would never ever kiss another man ever again. Ever.

She gulped her wine to cement her decision and laid her forehead on the table.

She jumped when there was a knock at the back door. Lydia had returned already and forgotten her keys, she thought, but when she opened the door it was Marcus. He'd taken off his suit jacket and his tie, but he still had his glasses on. Her heart and stomach did a massive leap.

‘Hi,' he said. ‘Can we talk?'

‘Come in.' Resolution one out the window, then.

He hesitated. ‘Is Lydia there? Because …'