The Little Things (12 page)

He must’ve stepped onto that pavement thousands of times over the years. But, under pressure from the Fiesta driver’s anger-management issues, he catches his foot on the kerb and
tumbles awkwardly to the ground.

Someone screams. ‘OH MY GOD, NORMAN!’

‘Norman’s hit his head!’

I rush towards him with Ollie’s buggy, the twins next to me, and register with a queasy adrenalin that Norman is out cold. The driver of the white Fiesta – a woman in her early
twenties in a slick skirt suit – races out of her car.

‘I didn’t touch him, I swear!’ she protests, as I fumble in my bag for my phone, Leo starts crying and others rush forward. I dial 999 on my mobile, frantically explaining that
I think our lollipop man must have hit his head, before ending the call with a sinking despair.

‘Is Norman going to die?’ Noah sobs as I realise that, for all the people who’ve raced to his aid, nobody really
can
help.

‘Does anyone know CPR? Someone? PLEASE!’ the Fiesta driver starts shrieking.

‘What’s going on?’ I look up as Michael pushes past us and marches to Norman.

I usher the boys away to give him some space as he kneels down, and gets to work, trying to get a response and checking his breathing. I have no idea what he does beyond that and by this stage I
don’t want to let the twins get close enough to look. All I know is, by the time the ambulance arrives a few minutes later and Norman is on a stretcher, it doesn’t look good. Michael
walks towards us, his jaw clenched but generally looking calmer than most of us.

‘Is he going to be all right?’ I ask.

‘I don’t know,’ he replies quietly. ‘He was breathing and responded to me once by the time the ambulance came, so it could just be concussion. But a severe blow to the
head can cause cerebral compression. Which is more serious.’ His eyes catch mine and I feel an urgent need to leave. ‘I’m going to speak to the police now, but they’ve also
said they want to interview any witnesses, so you might need to hang around,’ he tells me. ‘Would you like me to take the boys home for you?’

In the event, the police interview takes only ten minutes or so and, by the time I’ve told them everything I know, there’s nothing to do except walk back to the car, my head spinning
slightly.

And I don’t just mean about the events of this afternoon.

I pull my coat around me and feel my eyes grow hot, feeling unexpectedly lost, confused, desperate for some clarity. So I don’t stop at the car. I just keep walking. As I head towards
Sefton Park, I cross the field towards the boating lake, gazing over the water, shimmering with red.

Unlike James, I’ll miss this place, all of it. But, hard as this is to reconcile, it’s not all I’ll miss.

‘Hannah!’ I think I’ve imagined it at first, a voice in the distance, drifting across the grassy curves of the parkland. But then I turn around and see him walking towards me.
It’s Michael.

Lark Lane, on the other side of Sefton Park, is no ordinary suburban street. It’s a bustling, bohemian, vaguely eccentric community where vegetarian restaurants are
longstanding neighbours with vintage clothes shops and cubbyholes selling second-hand books. We find a seat by the window of Keith’s Wine Bar and Michael goes to buy two small glasses of
red.

‘Were the kids okay when you dropped them off?’ I ask him. Practical matters strike me as by far the only comfortable topic of conversation.

‘Suzy had popped out of surgery for ten minutes to meet me,’ he says, ‘then Brigitte stepped in to look after the kids. So everything’s fine. They won’t be sending
out a search party for you. Although . . . I can’t speak for your boyfriend, obviously.’

I redden slightly. ‘Oh, he’ll still be at work, so he won’t miss me.’

The air between us is thick with unspoken words. ‘Sorry I interrupted your walk. I wasn’t sure if you wanted to be alone or not.’

‘Oh, it’s fine. I just wanted to savour one of my favourite places, before I no longer have the opportunity to do so,’ I say.

He looks down at his drink and I have an overwhelming urge to reach out and touch his face. Not kiss it, just touch it. Though . . . kissing it would be good, too.

Oh, God.

A small earthquake shakes my stomach.

‘You’re still going, then?’ he asks quietly.

‘Yes. Of course.’

He forces a smile and I remind myself what’s happening here.

One of the reasons so many women are smitten with Michael is that he can so convincingly make a girl feel as if she’s the only one in a room. I don’t know how he does this, except
that it’s a profusion of little things that add up to something incomparable. The way his face blossoms into a laugh when he likes something you’ve said. The way he looks at you, as if
your thoughts are the source of endless fascination. The way his head tilts, his hands move, his eyes shine . . .

‘Why would you care, Michael?’ The words slip out of my mouth before I can stop them.

He looks up at me. ‘I’ve already told you, Hannah. You don’t want me to repeat it and make a total fool of myself, do you?’

‘Oh, yeah. You have feelings for me.’ I glance up and realise he looks hurt. ‘What about Gill?’ I continue. ‘You asked her out literally hours after we slept
together. Well, not slept together but . . . you know.’

‘I tried to tell you the other day. She’s been attempting to persuade me to join the PTA for ages. I’d resisted – I never considered it to be my kind of thing. But after
a while I started to think, Well, this sort of thing
should
be a dad’s job as well as a mum’s. My kids’ education is just as important to me. That was what our meeting
was for.’

My jaw tightens. ‘You can’t seriously expect me to believe it.’

‘You obviously haven’t seen this week’s newsletter.’

I peer at the dodgy font and blurry pictures – whoever puts these things together would never win any prizes for desktop publishing. And, sure enough, on Page 3 there is a short piece with
the headline, S
IX PARENTS JOIN
PTA.

‘I can’t believe I didn’t even make the front page,’ he says, through a soft smile.

I laugh. And keep laughing. Because if I don’t I might just start crying instead.

I wake at 6.20 the following morning, four hours before I step onto a plane to Dubai – to find a text from Caroline Rogers. ‘Good morning Hannah – I’ve
tried sending you that email again. Can you check your inbox and let me know if it doesn’t arrive? Grrr… technology!’

I rub open my eyes enough to log on to my emails and see a message from her load up at the top. I glance at James next to me, snoring lightly and entirely out for the count, before reading her
message.

I didn’t bother going into detail about the fact that I was actually driving on Suzy’s insurance so will have to fork out for this myself.

I scroll down to find her original email, pasted on to the bottom.

I put down the phone as James’s eyes flutter open and he props himself up on his elbow, his biceps bulging over the top of the sheet. He smells of sleep and aftershave, his hair slightly
crumpled against his forehead.

‘Today’s the day. And I can’t
wait
to get you out of here!’ He grins, leaning in to plop a demonstrative kiss on my lips.

The hour before we leap into our taxi to the airport is a whirlwind, even by the standards I’m used to. There are misplaced toothbrushes, lost PE shorts, ripped reading
books – and, no matter how organised I’d convinced myself my packing was last night, nothing seems to come together.

On top of that, my goodbye to the kids is more tearful than I’d anticipated. I transmute into a hopeless, blubbing wreck, setting off a terrible domino effect among them that culminates in
Ollie grabbing me by the shins and refusing to let go until someone bribes him with a contraband chocolate biscuit.

Meanwhile James stands by the door, looking at his watch and silently biting his lip, before we finally haul his spotless suitcase – and my tatty one – into the taxi and I’m
forced to actually stop and think about the email from Caroline.

Well . . . it changes nothing, does it?

It might be amazing on every level and include foreign travel and superlative pay and holidays. But it won’t get me to Dubai.

‘What’s the matter?’ James asks.

‘Nothing, why?’

‘You . . .
sighed
.’

‘Did I?’

‘Yes,’ he says accusingly.

I bang my chest a couple of times. ‘Bit of wind.’

He scrunches up his nose.

‘I don’t mean I
farted
,’ I clarify, causing him to wrinkle his nose further.

I glance away, as a voicemail pops up on my phone and I realise someone must’ve tried to phone me when we were on the motorway in a coverage black spot.

I dial it silently and hear Julia’s voice.

‘Hannah, it’s me,’ she says with such breathless urgency I can only assume there’s either a bomb in the boot of this taxi or an unexpected sale at Cricket. ‘Hannah,
listen to me, I need to speak to you about something. Urgently. Like, right sodding now. So phone me. Immediately. And
definitely
before you get on any plane to Dubai. Got it?’

I shake my head and end the call. ‘I’ve just had the weirdest message,’ I murmur, starting to bring up her number.

‘Who from?’ James asks.

Another voicemail pops up and I hold the phone to my ear before responding. It’s Julia again. ‘And DO NOT mention this to James, whatever you do!’

I end the call and lower the phone, my head spinning. ‘Who was it from?’ he repeats.

I blink twice and try to think of something to say. ‘Um . . . it was one of those companies asking me if I’d had an accident. You know – the ones that say I might be liable for
some compensation.’

‘Really?’ he says, brightening up immeasurably. ‘Wow – what a stroke of luck that is. You’d better phone them back before you get on the plane.’

As we head into the airport terminal, there is no opportunity to phone Julia back without James overhearing the conversation. It’s not as if I don’t try. At one point I slip off to
the ladies’, but I manage to get through only to her work voicemail, telling me she’s otherwise engaged.

With rising unease, I march back to James, who’s now at the front of the queue.

‘Economy for us,’ he tuts, as if turning right on an airline is worse than discovering your mother in bed with the window cleaner.

‘I’m sure we can manage to keep it real, James,’ I reply.

‘I could’ve been in business class,’ he says bitterly. ‘That’s where I was on the way here. You get proper cutlery there, you know. And as much champagne as you
want.’

I flash him a glance. ‘But I gave it all up so I could sit by you.’ He smiles and I realise I am supposed to drop to my knees and pledge my undying gratitude.

‘Thank you,’ I say.

‘It’s all right. Sacrifices are what relationships are all about, aren’t they?’

I could at this point tell him about the Grape job and salary and company car and health insurance that I’m about to turn down as soon as I’ve landed in Dubai, but we’re called
forward to the desk.

We are checked in by a middle-aged lady whose pudgy, unmade face is entirely at odds with her elaborately manicured nails, each garnished with the flag of a far-flung destination.

James hauls his bag onto the conveyor belt, before handing over the passports. I’m quietly mesmerised by the clatter of her United Nations of nails as she begins typing, but snap out of it
when my phone rings.

I reach into my back pocket and see Julia’s number, stepping back from the desk, pressing answer and refamiliarising myself with the fact that my friend has never been one for unnecessary
pleasantries.

‘DO NOT GET ON THAT BLOODY PLANE WITH THAT BACKSTABBING TOSSER!’

I glance up, ping-pong-eyed, as James turns and flashes me a smile.

I turn away. ‘What are you
talking
about?’ I hiss.