The Great Escape (33 page)

Spike nods and sucks his teeth, regretting having mentioned his ageing parents and eager to move on to the matter in hand. ‘Anyway, just up to see a few old friends,’ he says quickly. ‘The thing is …’

‘Still with lovely Lou?’ Terry asks with a smile.

‘Oh yeah.’ Spike nods, allowing Terry a few moments to reflect on the wonderfulness of his girlfriend.

‘Doing her jewellery, is she?’

‘Uh-huh. Still pottering along. …’

Terry scratches his head and steps back, giving the impression that, niceties over, he should really get on with doing something more productive. ‘So, er … are you looking for anything?’

Spike exhales and glances around the shop. ‘Not exactly. I’ve … had a bit of a disaster, Terry, to be honest.’

‘Yeah? What happened?’ A deep crevice appears between Terry’s bushy grey eyebrows.

‘Just got here, like, just got off the train … and had my wallet stolen.’

‘Jeez.’ Terry frowns. ‘You mean all your cards gone, everything?’

‘Yeah.’ Spike casts his gaze at the faded carpet tiles.

‘Called the police? And your bank?’

‘Yep, it’s all in hand.’ Spike brushes back his hair distractedly. ‘The thing is, Terry, I know it’s a big ask …’

‘Sure,’ Terry says, frowning. ‘I can lend you …’ He takes his wallet from his back pocket and opens it. ‘Only got a fiver in here, can’t really leave the shop to go to the bank, but would that be enough to get you to your friend’s place?’

Spike’s cheeks flame instantly. ‘Er … thanks, but I can’t take your money. It’s my own stupid fault. I should’ve taken better care of it. You see, what I was wondering is …’ He turns towards the rack of guitars on the wall and winces. ‘I couldn’t, um … borrow one for a bit, could I? Just for an hour or so?’

The crevice between Terry’s brows has deepened to a geographical fault. ‘What for, mate?’

‘Well … I was thinking of busking.’

‘Seriously?’ Terry says with a barking laugh. ‘You don’t need to do that. Take the fiver. Look, I can probably get you another, would a tenner do? Hey, Norm!’ The boy in the shrunken T-shirt turns round.

‘No, no, I can’t take anyone’s money,’ Spike cuts in, panic rising in his throat. ‘I … I’d feel really bad. And look … Lou’s up here with me and we planned to go for dinner tonight, it’s a sort of special occasion …’

‘Her birthday?’ Terry suggests.

‘Yeah. Exactly. So I need …’ He throws open his arms in a
women, what can you do?
kind of way. ‘I need quite a bit and I can’t ask you for that. So I thought … I’d need an hour, two at the most …’ Terry scratches his chin and glances at the guitars on the wall. ‘Just anything you can spare,’ Spike adds. ‘I’ll take really good care of it, I promise.’

Terry’s mouth has set in a firm line. ‘Well … Mike’ll go mad if he finds out. But he’s on his lunchbreak so I might be able to help you out.’

‘Thanks, mate,’ Spike murmurs.

Terry twitches his head in the direction of the stock room. ‘C’mon. Let’s see what we’ve got. But I’ve got to tell you, Spike, any damage …’

‘Absolutely. I’ll guard it with my life.’

Ten minutes later, Spike emerges from the shop, gripping the handles of a guitar case, ready to play what is possibly the most important gig of his life.

FIFTY-THREE

Petra was right. Her gnarled recycled cartons don’t go soggy when filled with gloopy substances. They are a miracle of modern construction and, as she lays out the picnic on a large crocheted rug, Ryan can’t help feeling a little in awe. It’s one of those perfect picnics you glimpse sometimes, wondering how on earth the family managed to put it all together. There are dips, crudités, a berry salad, a carrot cake and the posh ham sandwiches. There’s Ryan’s ex-wife looking elegant in a simple grey shift and sandals with a tiny heel, and the two beautiful children they made. There’s chilled champagne, proper glasses, sunshine and all of Hampstead Heath spread out before them.

Josh and Daisy aren’t even arguing. They’re sitting together a few metres away, chomping on sandwiches while Daisy fires questions about secondary school, which Josh is even deigning to answer.

‘This is nice, isn’t it?’ Petra says, selecting a celery stick and biting it delicately.

‘It’s lovely,’ Ryan says. ‘I should be working today but …’ He shrugs and chuckles, reclining on the rug. ‘I guess the bar snacks can wait.’

Petra smiles and falls silent again, and Ryan senses that she’d like to say something more.

‘Lucky with this weather,’ he adds quickly to fill the space.

‘Yes.’ More silence. Josh and Daisy are wandering towards the pond now to throw their crusts to the ducks. Fourteen years old and a
smoker
, for God’s sake, and Josh still won’t tolerate crusts.

‘So, what d’you think about the smoking thing?’ Ryan asks.

‘We should talk to him of course.’

‘Yes, we really need to.’

‘I think we should both do it together,’ Petra says, turning to him.

‘You’re right,’ Ryan says. ‘United front and all that. But not today, huh? This is just too nice.’

Petra nods. ‘We need to choose our time. It’s not easy, is it? We’re so rarely together these days …’

That’s what happens when a couple breaks up
, Ryan thinks dryly. ‘Well, we’ll just have to plan it, grab some time when it’s just us …’
And no Hannah
, he means. ‘When Daisy’s not earwigging,’ he adds quickly.

‘Yep,’ Petra says firmly. ‘I’m sure we can do that.’

Ryan studies her face. She is sitting up straight, long, slender legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles. There’s a sadness in her eyes which he hasn’t seen for a long time. She’s usually so brisk at handover time; brittle and impenetrable. ‘Is everything all right, Petra?’ he asks gently.

‘I’m fine,’ she says with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. ‘It’s just … I do regret it sometimes, you know.’

‘What d’you regret?’ he asks, startled.

She lowers her gaze. ‘What I did three years ago. Leaving …’

‘Do you? Leaving the kids, you mean?’

Her grey eyes are fixed on him now. ‘Yes, but not
just
the kids. Us too.’

He looks past her, at their children who are messing about, trying unsuccessfully to skim stones across the water.
Because you haven’t met anyone else?
he thinks.
Because you’re all alone with your cello in that perfect little Crouch End flat?

‘Why, though?’ he asks. ‘You seemed so sure when you left.’

She shakes her head, pushing her hair back distractedly. ‘I was a mess back then, Ryan. I can’t tell you how hemmed in I felt, trying to keep everything going. It’s not as if I have a regular job that can just be slotted in …’

‘Like mine?’ he asks curtly.

‘I’m not belittling what you do, but you
know
what my life is like. You know the schedules, rehearsals, touring … it just became impossible. Half the time when I was away, I was eaten up with guilt …’

‘But the kids were fine,’ Ryan cuts in. ‘They had me, didn’t they? I might not be perfect, but we muddled along …’ She throws him a resigned look. ‘I did my best,’ he adds. ‘You didn’t think they’d be better off without you, did you?’

‘In some ways, yes.’ Her eyes mist with tears and she places her hand on his arm. ‘I know you were doing your best,’ she adds softly, ‘and I couldn’t have had my career without you. But the way I saw it, it was all such a terrible compromise …’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he mutters.

‘I mean,’ Petra says, more forcefully now, ‘your life’s always been more stable, and I knew that the kids would know where they were and you’d always be home, making dinner …’

‘… while you flew off to China or Brazil or Berlin or wherever …’

‘It’s what I do, Ryan!’ she exclaims, swiftly removing her hand. ‘But now they’re older and I know they could cope with me being away, because they’re settled. And that’s mostly because you’ve done such a great job with them.’

Jesus Christ. Ryan thought he’d been asked along on a simple family picnic, and now he’s being given a performance review. ‘Thanks,’ he mutters.

‘Look how happy they are,’ she adds, indicating the two of them perched at the edge of the pond.

Ryan nods wordlessly. ‘Petra, are you actually saying you want me and you to try again?’

She presses her lips together and nods, her eyes filling with tears again.

‘But … I’m getting married in two weeks’ time …’
To someone who feels trapped, possibly even as ‘hemmed in’ as you claim to have felt three years ago. I’m clearly good at making the women I love feel imprisoned …

‘Well,’ Petra clears her throat. ‘I had to tell you what I’ve been thinking.’

Ryan glances distractedly around the heath. He
could
do it. He could set Hannah free to pursue her art without grumpy stepchildren impinging on her life. ‘The kids would be pleased,’ Petra adds tentatively.

‘Yes, they probably would be.’

He’s looking away now but can sense Petra studying him. An elderly couple walks by, arm in arm, and they murmur something and smile.
I probably look like I have the perfect family
, Ryan reflects,
with the good-looking children and the beautiful wife and the wicker hamper.
But it doesn’t feel perfect. He wants Hannah to be in Petra’s place, and a pang of missing her sweeps over him. ‘Maybe,’ he murmurs, ‘it would be better if the kids lived with you.’

‘What?’ Petra looks aghast.

‘Well, you know they’re not exactly a hundred per cent delighted that I’m marrying Hannah …’

‘Yes, because they don’t want to share you,’ Petra declares. ‘They love you to bits. It’s hard for them, Ryan.’

‘And I love them,’ he shoots back, ‘more than anything, but I can’t let them dictate how I live the rest of my life.’

She blinks at him. ‘You mean … you’d seriously make them move out?’

‘God, Petra, you’re making it sound as if I’d be putting them out on the street. They’d live with you – their mother. You’ve got a lovely flat, plenty of space …’

‘It’s only two bedrooms, and what about their schools?’

‘Well, we’d have to figure something out …’ He knows, as soon as he’s said it, that it’s not what he wants, and he’s sure it’s not what his kids want either. Daisy and Josh belong with him.

‘But … what about my work?’ Petra asks coolly. Ryan looks at her, marvelling at how quickly she’s transformed from being Petra the guilt-ridden mother to Petra the concert cellist. Petra for whom, if push came to shove, Elgar would always come before any real, living person.

Her entire demeanour stiffens as she starts to pack the remains of the picnic back into the hamper. The cartons have started to wilt now, and the berry salad has barely been touched. ‘Maybe we should ask them,’ he adds, ‘and see what they think.’

Petra nods curtly, lips pursed, eyes guarded. ‘We should think about it. We shouldn’t rush into anything.’

‘No, of course not.’

‘And we need to talk to Josh about the cigarettes.’

‘Yes, of course we do.’ Ryan stands up, strides to the water’s edge and puts an arm around his son and his daughter. Josh is only two inches shorter than he is, his baby softness morphing into sharp cheekbones and a handsome face. Turning to him, Daisy grins and snuggles closer. They could all live together – his family – and Petra could cook her delicious meals, when she was around. Instead of the top floor being a jumble of Hannah’s paintings and art materials it could be serene again with a chrome music stand placed like a spindly sculpture in the middle of the floor, and the cello parked in the corner, watching over the room like a stern aunt.

Ryan knows he could have all that again, but right now his daughter is demanding that he shows her how to skim a stone properly. He selects a flat, smooth pebble that’s cool in his hand, throws it hard and fast across the water and hopes for the best.

FIFTY-FOUR

Two hours after leaving Little Hissingham, Pete calls Barney with the gleeful announcement that Amy has texted him already.

‘That’s great,’ Barney says without conviction, simultaneously trying to clean Milo’s bottom with a wet wipe. While Barney grips the phone, Milo makes his escape, crawling away at speed and daubing the living room rug with poo.

‘You’d better come clean with Magda,’ Pete adds, ‘before you run into her again, you single dad with the adorable babies, managing all on your own …’

‘Oh, fuck off,’ Barney says, realising that he, too, is now crawling, in hot pursuit of his son. Dylan, who’s strapped in his bouncy chair with splatters of mustard-coloured baby food all over his front, wails to be let out.

‘Aren’t you going to tell her you’re married?’ Pete wants to know.

‘Yeah. No. God, it’s not really important, is it …’
Hell, how can so much poo come out of one little person?
He grabs Milo and plonks him, still dirty-bottomed, on his lap.

‘Well, it’s probably quite important to Sadie,’ Pete reminds him.

‘Yeah. Listen, I don’t really have time to talk right now … I’ll call you later.’

Barney hangs up, still clutching Milo and gazes bleakly at the brownish stains on his freshly-washed jeans. Now, to make matters worse, Pete’s phone call has rekindled Barney’s guilt. He looks around the room in mild panic. There’s poo on the floor so he can’t liberate Dylan from his seat yet. His jeans are dirty, yet he can’t change them until Milo is firmly encased in a fresh nappy. And only then can he turn his attentions to the rug. So many tasks have piled up, just when he’d been congratulating himself for coping so well. The room smells like a sewer, and he’s lost one of the boys’ baby shoes too; it must have fallen off when they were in the woods. And the buggy’s a disgrace, its wheels caked with mud which he’ll have to scrub off before Sadie comes home and wonders where the hell he took them. She’s only been gone for a day but he has never known such crushing exhaustion in his entire life.

Breathing deeply, he cleans Milo as best he can, puts a nappy on him and, with Dylan’s cries dying down to a whimper, places his brother in the seat beside him. Then he sets to work on the rug. Pausing for breath, he glances up at the framed wedding photo on the mantelpiece. Sadie looks ravishing – all full red lips and tumbling wavy hair, like a young Sophia Loren. God, she was gorgeous. Still is, of course, when she’s not barking at him, being the parenting Führer. The phone rings, and he dumps the wet cloth on the rug and rushes to answer it in the kitchen. ‘Barney? It’s me.’