The Great Escape (13 page)

‘I was just telling her I won’t be able to go on the weekend.’ Lou shrugs. ‘She sounded a bit disappointed.’

‘Er … what are you doing home?’ he asks. ‘I thought someone had broken into the flat.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, the door was open.’

‘Was it? I mustn’t have shut it properly. I came home early. This cold’s really come on and Dave was quite sympathetic for once.’ She pauses, studying his face as if detecting something – the tiniest tic, or his hair looking messier than usual – which might alert her to the nature of his morning activities. ‘Where have you been anyway?’ she asks.

‘Just out and about.’
Don’t panic. She asked in a normal voice, not accusingly.
‘I popped into Sound Shack actually,’ he adds with a grin. ‘Spoke to Rick about the acoustic.’

‘What about the acoustic?’ Lou pauses. ‘Oh, Spike, you’re not seriously thinking of selling it.’

‘Sold it, honey,’ he says grandly.

‘What? You’re joking! It’s your oldest guitar. Your parents bought it for you! What would they think?’

He shrugs. ‘They probably don’t even remember it.’

‘Of course they do! God, you can’t get rid of it …’ She sneezes again, her eyes moist and sore-looking.

‘Well, it’s all done and dusted.’ With a resigned smile, he extracts the wad of notes from his pocket and hands it to her.

‘I don’t need this!’ she exclaims. ‘I feel terrible, like I’m responsible for you doing that …’

‘Hey,’ Spike cuts in, hugging her. ‘You’re not responsible.
I
did it, because you’ve been working your socks off and I don’t want you to keep going on about it, okay? It’s done. Finito. And the money’s yours.’

Lou pulls back to study his face, then kisses him firmly on the lips. ‘You’re such a darling. Honestly, Spike, I can’t believe you did this for me.’ She smiles up at him, showing the gap between her teeth. Lou’s so cute when she looks at him like that, Spike thinks, and he buries his face in her springy curls, even though they smell slightly of deep-fat fryer. It’s not that he wants to split up with Lou. Theirs is an old-slipper sort of relationship: worn slippers with flattened backs which, although they hardly set your pulse racing, are somehow deeply comforting.

Unlike that guitar, he tells himself firmly, hoping to quell another pang of regret. That’s just …
old
. Then Spike imagines some cocky little sod swaggering into Sound Shack and buying it – the type who wants a guitar to prop up in his living room as a ‘thing’ – and realises his face has set in an unbecoming scowl.

‘You okay?’ Lou is studying him intently.

‘Er, yeah. Just thinking about my CV actually.’

She raises her brows in amusement. ‘Well, I’m looking forward to seeing it. And, Spike …’ She pauses. ‘I’ll be different when I come back from the weekend, okay? I probably just need a bit of time with Sadie and Han. It’ll be good for me. Help me get back on track. I mean, they’re still doing what they set out to do, aren’t they? Hannah’s doing really well at Catfish, and I know Sadie’s at home with the babies but she wanted that too, she was desperate for kids with Barney, and she’ll probably go back to teaching at some point …’

Spike nods. ‘Yeah. It’ll be good for the three of you to get together.’

‘That’s what’s wrong, Spike,’ she declares. ‘I’ve let this crappy job take over my life and I need to get my priorities right and be focused.’

‘I know what you mean.’

‘And I miss them,’ she adds. ‘I know I’ve got plenty of friends here, but us three – it’s as if we’re somehow … connected.’ Spike nods, picturing the girls’ dowdy yet cosy flat in Garnet Street, all of them bunched around the kitchen table and everyone laughing and knocking back Spanish plonk as he regaled them with tales from the music business.

Right now, Spike feels as vibrant and alive as he did in the old days, as if his world has just opened up with a myriad of possibilities. He has Lou who adores him and is awash with gratitude, and Astrid waiting for him in her chemise. Spike senses his lips curling into a smile as he reflects that life really couldn’t be much better right now.

SEVENTEEN

To: [email protected]; [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Dearest girls,

Can’t believe the three of us are going to be together in one week’s time. I’m so excited I can’t tell you and am counting the sleeps like a little kid. The hotel’s booked – I thought it sounded smart and boutiquey before someone on TripAdvisor said they’d found earwigs in the shower and an old sandwich poking out from under the bed. Oh well! It’s all I could get on the cheap and it does have a swimming pool. Anyway, who cares what it’s like? We’ll hardly be there anyway.

Can’t WAIT to see you. It’s been a funny old week – loads on at work with a new wedding stationery range, which I should be finding easy with my own nuptials thundering towards me … but somehow I’m not. I’ve had to work really late a few nights, and Ryan’s been looking all hurt as if I’m trying to avoid him. Which I’m not. Sometimes, though, I wonder if it’s easier for him and the kids when I’m not around.

I know I’ve never really mentioned any of this. I guess it’s because I’ve been trying to convince myself that it’ll turn out fine somehow. But now I’m scared that it won’t. Living here feels like I have to be on best behaviour all the time. The kids are so rude and surly – Ryan does his best but it’s a real pig-in-the-middle situation for him, and they ARE his flesh and blood. Anyway, they make it pretty clear they don’t want their beloved daddy to get married again. I made the big mistake of going into Josh’s room the other evening (I knocked first) and said, ‘Hi, how you doing,’ that sort of thing. He had some music on and I said, ‘Oh, I really like this band …’ He gave me this disgusted look, like he might vomit right there on the carpet. I backed out of the room and went downstairs and poured myself a huge glass of wine, which I tipped down without even swallowing. It’s a new skill I’ve learned. Remind me to show you in Glasgow!

There’s something else too. I was putting a wash on this morning and I always check the kids’ pockets because they’re usually crammed with sweet wrappers and headphones and sometimes even an iPod or two. And I found a crushed cigarette packet in the back pocket of Josh’s jeans. It had one in it – Marlboro Light. Everyone was out, and I was SO tempted to nip out to the back garden and smoke it (even though I’ve not had a fag for thirteen years and even then, as you both know, I was such a crap, part-time smoker). But I managed not to, and now I can’t decide whether to tell Ryan. If I do, I’m a disgusting snitch and there’ll be no hope of getting along better with Josh. And if I don’t, I’m not fulfilling my role as WIFE TO BE by withholding vital information.

Anyway! Sorry to rant on, just needed to spill it all out and we hardly ever get the chance to talk properly on the phone these days. I probably just need to get away for a couple of days. I need some time with my favourite girls. Our train tickets are booked – I chose the East Coast line so we can all travel together. Sadie, I’ll meet you at King’s Cross, and Lou, you can collect your ticket at York station. We’ll be banging on the window in case you’re having a last-minute snoggy farewell with Spike and forget to jump on.

Oh, and listen – I don’t want the typical matching T-shirts type hen party. No bunny ears or L-plates either, not even ironically. Hope you don’t think I’m being a spoilsport and not getting into the spirit. All I want is for the three of us to be together again like old times.

Hannah checks her watch. It’s 11.30 am – still half an hour before Petra’s due, by which time Ryan and the kids should be back from the swimming pool. After six months here, Hannah still finds herself growing more agitated by the minute as a Petra visit approaches. She checks her hair, her face – even the state of her fingernails – and has already wiped the worktops and mopped the kitchen floor. It’s silly really. Why should she care what Petra thinks of her?

The sharp ping of the doorbell makes her flinch, and Hannah quickly shuts her email and hurries to answer it.

‘Hi, Petra,’ she says at the door. ‘Ryan and the kids are still at the pool but they shouldn’t be too long. Come in …’ It still feels weird, inviting Petra into the house in which she brought up her babies and played her cello and lived with her family for a decade.

Petra, clad in a camel jacket and elegant black trousers – what the magazines would describe as ‘key pieces’ – follows Hannah to the kitchen. ‘I hoped they’d be ready,’ she remarks, glossy dark hair bouncing around her pointy chin. ‘We’ve got a lot to pack in today.’

She talks about them as if they’re a project,
Hannah thinks as she fills the kettle. ‘Er, I think they were expecting you at twelve,’ Hannah explains.

Petra frowns. ‘It was definitely eleven-thirty. I wanted to make the most of the day.’

‘What have you got planned?’ Hannah asks, selecting the china Orla Keily mug from the cupboard for Petra and not the one emblazoned DANGER: RADIOACTIVE MATERIAL! CONTAINS PLUTONIUM SUSPENSION, which she’s been carting from flat to flat since college.

‘Well, I thought we could do Miró at the Tate,’ Petra explains, ‘then there’s an open-air mime show at the South Bank I thought we’d check out. Have you heard about it?’

‘Er, I think so,’ Hannah fibs. ‘It sounds great.’

Petra has parked her bony rear on a kitchen chair and smiles her thanks as Hannah hands her her tea. Petra’s nails are manicured; perfect pink ovals like delicate shells. Hannah imagines them glinting under the spotlight as Petra performs Bach’s Cello Concerto number something-or-other at the Festival Hall. Although she’s never seen Petra play live, she’s watched some of her performances on YouTube, having stumbled upon them accidentally after typing ‘Petra Lennox Cellist’ into the search box. She’s also spotted a few lusty comments directed at Petra on there.

‘They should be here pretty soon,’ Hannah says unnecessarily, perching on the chair opposite her.

‘Yep, hope so.’ Petra smiles tightly. Hannah hasn’t spoken to her since earring-gate, two weeks ago now, and the subject of potentially festering lobes hovers uneasily between them. Hannah wonders how Petra would react to news of Josh’s Marlboro packet.

‘Oh,
here
they are,’ she cries, leaping up at the sound of Ryan and the kids tumbling in.

‘Got these for you, sweetheart … oh, Petra, didn’t expect …’ Ryan stops in the kitchen doorway, smiling inanely and clutching a bunch of sweet peas, which Hannah quickly takes from him as if relieving him of a crying baby.

‘Hi, Mum,’ Josh says, stepping forward to give his mother a stiff hug.

‘Hello, darling. Hi, Daisy, love.’ She kisses her daughter’s cheek and stands back to appraise her. ‘Goodness,’ Petra laughs. ‘What have you done to your hair?’

Daisy frowns. ‘Er … nothing, Mum.’

‘That’s what I mean. It’s all tangly, sweetheart.’

‘Well, I’ve just been swimming and Dad said we had to hurry—’

Petra rolls her eyes indulgently. ‘Well, anyway, get your things together – and please brush your hair, Daisy – and let’s be off.’
Yep, got to look immaculate
for a scintillating afternoon of mime.
As the kids head upstairs, Petra’s gaze settles briefly on the sweet peas, which Hannah has arranged hastily in a vase.

Now that Ryan’s here, she can legitimately escape from the kitchen in which the temperature seems to have plummeted by about ten degrees. ‘I hope Daisy’s bringing plenty of books this weekend,’ Petra tells Ryan. In the utility room, Hannah drags a washload from the tumble dryer into a laundry basket. She’s kept the Marlboro Light packet, hiding it behind a broken Bakelite radio which sits on the shelf. Not to show Ryan, or as evidence to present in court, but because she doesn’t know what else to do with it.

‘I’ll remind her,’ Ryan says. ‘We borrowed a couple from the library last week. I suppose it’s just finding the right ones to spark her imagination.’

‘I just think,’ Petra adds, ‘that she should be on more challenging books, Ryan. Especially after what they said at parents’ night.’

‘Yes, but we can’t
force
her to read, can we? We can’t strap her to a chair with an open book on her lap and—’

‘Yes,
okay
, Ryan, I get the picture.’ Hannah stops and listens. She knows Daisy’s a reluctant reader. Ryan tries to encourage her, spending a small fortune on Amazon, and Hannah has asked Daisy if she’d like to be read
to
, which she seemed to regard as immensely patronising, as if Hannah had suggested making little Play-doh animals together. Carrying the overloaded linen basket, Hannah strides through the kitchen, keeping her expression neutral.

As she escapes to her bedroom, Josh and Daisy pass her wordlessly as they make their way downstairs.

‘So,’ Petra says in the hallway, ‘have you got over your earring thing, Daisy?’

‘Yes, Mum.’

‘Were you upset about it?’ Petra asks in a gentler tone.

‘Yeah. No. It’s all right,’ she mutters.

‘The thing is, Ryan,’ Petra adds, ‘I don’t think Daisy would have even got the idea in her head if Hannah hadn’t suggested it …’ Gritting her teeth, Hannah lowers the basket onto her and Ryan’s bed.

‘Hannah didn’t suggest it,’ he says lightly.

‘She did, Daddy!’ his daughter cries. ‘Hannah said I could have it done for the wedding when we went shopping.’

‘I’m sure that’s not right,’ Ryan starts. ‘The way Hannah explained it,
you
asked her, Daisy, and kept going on …’ Hannah’s entire body is now rigid with rage. Her heart is thumping and her breaths are coming in rapid gasps.

‘Well, it’s not really appropriate, is it?’ Petra says, and Hannah realises how much she hates that word:
appropriate
. ‘You can have it done one day,’ Petra goes on, ‘when you’re a teenager. Just not yet, okay?’ Now Hannah is trapped, not knowing what to do next. She
should
go downstairs to say goodbye to the kids before they’re whisked off by their mother. Yet she knows she won’t be able to do this and appear calm and pleasant – like someone who might one day merit the title of stepmother.