The Shadow Year (43 page)

The look on his face says it all. She can see amid the disbelief and confusion the devastating impact her accusation has had and she understands at last that she has got it spectacularly wrong. The pain in his eyes is clear to read: it’s the pain of an innocent man accused. One look in his eyes and she knows that Tom would never hurt her. She wants to rewind. She wants to take her words back, to be sitting at that table in the restaurant still, but it’s too late and she can’t take her accusation back – not now.

Tom looks up at her, still struggling to comprehend. ‘Honestly, Lila, what are you asking me? You think I’d hurt you . . . you think I’d hurt our baby?’

‘Forget it.’ She says. ‘Just come back inside. Let’s talk in the restaurant.’

‘No. I can’t face it in there.’ He rubs his eyes and slumps down further to the ground, all strength leaving his body.

She stands there in the cobbled lane, helpless and uncertain. Out of the darkness, a group of young women totter towards them on high heels, giddy and giggling. ‘Come on, Tom. We can’t stay here – not like this. Shouldn’t we go back in?’

Finally he stands, but instead of heading for the restaurant he turns and heads north towards Oxford Circus. ‘Are you coming?’ he asks over his shoulder, the exhaustion evident in his voice.

Slowly, she follows him down the street. As they near Oxford Street the orange light of a black cab appears out of the shadows. Tom flags it down and ushers her into the back and Lila sits there in the furthest corner of the back seat, watching as the lights and life of London speed past the window. She sees a rowdy stag party spill from a bar, eight drunken men crowing and posturing around their unfortunate friend who is dressed for humiliation in a huge yellow banana suit. Further along a couple of policemen talk to a homeless person slumped on a makeshift cardboard bed in a doorway. A girl in tiny silver hotpants argues with her boyfriend. A bouncer turns a drunken lad away at the door to a nightclub. The business of another Saturday night revolves all around them but Lila and Tom remain silent, locked within their private black bubble, the half-metre of physical distance between them belying the echoing chasm of confusion and pain.

As the cab pulls up to the house, Tom pays the driver and hops out, holding the car door open for Lila. She follows him up the path to the front door and watches as he turns his key in the lock, snaps on the hall light, then pushes the door shut behind them.

‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ she asks.

He shrugs.

‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

Neither of them move. Lila looks down and sees her holdall still sitting by the front door where she threw it just hours earlier. She hasn’t even unpacked yet. The thought comes to her then that she could reach for it, head out the front door and drive away again . . . back to the lake, back to the cottage. She could run.

But she’s sick of running. She’s sick of all these half-spoken truths and all the things that remain unsaid between them. And, most importantly, there is still something that she needs to tell him. Gently, she reaches for his hand. He starts at her touch, but allows her to take it. ‘Come with me,’ she says and she leads him into the front room, indicates for him to take the chair beside the fireplace then sits herself on the sofa opposite. He eyes her warily then turns away. Lila takes a deep breath. ‘I’m pregnant,’ she says, keeping her gaze focused purely on him.

Tom looks at her then, his eyes darting to her face. ‘You’re . . . pregnant?’

She nods.

Confusion races across his face. ‘Is it . . . is it . . . ?’

‘Is it yours?’ she asks with a sigh. What a mess: what should be the happiest news of all is filled with pain and suspicion. ‘Of course it’s yours. I told you, there’s
nothing
going on with William. He’s just a friend.’

Tom thinks for a moment. ‘Valentine’s Day?’

Lila nods again.

Tom can’t help himself; the fraction of a curve appears at the corners of his mouth. ‘Lila. Why didn’t you say something? In the restaurant.’

‘You didn’t give me a chance.’

He shakes his head. ‘Pregnant.’

‘I’ve only just found out for sure. I did a test, just before I came to meet you.’

Tom runs his hands through his hair. ‘I can’t keep up.’

Lila hesitates. More than anything, she realises, she wants him to hold her. ‘Tom, I’m scared.’

He swallows and then nods. ‘Me too.’

They stare at each other across the room. ‘Where did we go so wrong?’

She shakes her head. ‘I don’t know.’ She wants to ask him then, she wants to ask the one question that burns on the tip of her tongue:
Is it too late?

But before she can say the words he is there, on the sofa beside her. He places his hand on the flat of her stomach. ‘There’s a baby,’ he says, staring into her eyes. She nods and then he opens his arms to her. ‘Together,’ he says. ‘We have to do this together. No more of this distance between us. Agreed?’

She nods and feels the first warm tear slide down her cheek.

‘No more running away?’

‘No.’

Tom pulls her closer and speaks into her ear. ‘I have a suggestion.’

‘What’s that?’ she half sobs.

‘Let’s start the night over. Let’s stay here and talk about this – all of this.’

Lila leans into his body and rests her head against the curve of his shoulder. ‘That sounds good.’ And it does. Suddenly she wants nothing more than to be nestled in his arms there at home – in
their
home.

‘We should phone the restaurant,’ she says with a half smile into his shoulder. ‘We should explain.’

Tom gives a low chuckle. ‘Explain that I thought you were having an affair? That you thought I’d thrown you down the stairs? That we’re pregnant and absolutely bricking it?’

Lila’s smile widens. ‘When you put it like that . . .’

‘I’ll call them with my credit card details in the morning.’

‘You’ll never get a table there again.’

‘Oh who cares? It was pretty up itself. Confit pig cheek and truffle-infused dauphinoise?’ He rolls his eyes at her. ‘You know what I really fancy?’ he asks.

She shakes her head.

‘A curry – from our place down the road. Are you in?’

She nods. ‘I’m in.’

She wakes in the morning still wrapped in Tom’s arms, the sound of his mobile phone shrieking at them from the bedside table. He untangles himself and reaches for the phone, mumbling a greeting into the handset. Lila lies in bed half listening, and thinks about how nice it is to be home, back in her husband’s arms, back in their bed.

She runs her hands across her stomach, feels her skin, tight and smooth like the skin of a drum. Three months pregnant. Not just her secret any more, but hers and Tom’s. A secret shared.

Tom’s voice is rising in tone. He curses into the phone and she knows before he’s even hung up what he’s going to say.

‘Trouble at the site?’ she asks.

‘Yes.’

‘So you won’t be coming to lunch with Mum?’

He shakes his head. ‘Sorry. Do you mind?’

‘No, it’s OK.’

‘Thank you.’ He kisses the top of her head. ‘Give her my apologies? Tell her it was unavoidable.’ Lila nods. ‘Are you going to tell her about the baby?’

Lila nods again. ‘I think so. A bit of good news . . . it’s probably just what she needs after the last few months.’

‘Good.’ He kisses her on the mouth then slides out of bed, reaching for a T-shirt. Lila watches as he pulls it down over his torso.

‘I was thinking . . .’ she starts, more than a little hesitantly.

‘Uh-huh . . .’ Tom is pulling on his jeans, patting down the pockets.

‘Maybe you could come up to the cottage this summer. Spend a few weeks there with me – treat it like a holiday.’ She eyes him nervously. ‘What do you think?’

Tom turns to look at her. ‘As soon as I can get away from the Stratford site, sure, why not?’

She smiles and he leans over and kisses her again. ‘I like seeing you back in our bed. Don’t get up – not yet.’

The sun darts in and out of fast-moving clouds as she drives out along the A40 to Buckinghamshire. It’s a day for blowing away the cobwebs and Lila rolls down her car window to enjoy the sensation of air rushing through her hair and over her skin. Humming along to the car stereo and tapping her fingers on the steering wheel, she is still in a good mood as she arrives in the familiar commuter-belt town and pulls up the drive of her parents’ house. The privet hedge has been neatly trimmed and the lawn imprinted with immaculate chequerboard stripes in the fashion her father had always favoured. She sees pale pink peonies and clumps of butter-yellow primroses scattered throughout the flower beds, as well as extravagant bursts of purple alliums beneath the arched stone windows of the old gothic mansion. It’s certainly a beautiful house – well-proportioned and ornate – but as Lila turns the car engine off, she wrestles with her feelings. The mantle of her teenage self resettles heavily upon her shoulders. Why does that happen, she wonders? Why does coming home always make her feel like the kid she once was?

She doesn’t need to ring the doorbell. Her mother has been watching for her and throws the front door open as she approaches. ‘Happy birthday, darling,’ she says, greeting her with a hug. ‘Did you have a fun night with Tom? He told me he was taking you to that smart new restaurant . . . the one run by that chef off the telly, you know, the rather dishy one?’

Lila realises she hasn’t watched TV in months, but she nods anyway. ‘Yes.’ She has no idea how to explain the events of the previous night so she just goes along with the story, for the sake of ease. ‘It was great. Very glam. Amazing menu.’ It’s not really a lie.

‘Oh good.’ She takes a step back and gives her a sweeping look. ‘You look lovely. That’s a very pretty scarf.’ She reaches out to touch the colourful silk looped around Lila’s neck.

‘Thank you. It was my birthday present from Tom.’

‘He has good taste, doesn’t he? I’ll just get my jacket and I’ll be right with you. I thought we’d go to the pub up the hill for lunch. My treat.’

‘Sounds great.’ Lila waits on the doorstep while her mother fusses and flaps in the hallway gathering her belongings, then escorts her to the car.

As they drive through the town Lila sees the familiar markers of her youth: the newsagent where she spent her pocket money on penny sweets, the park where her father helped her wobble along on her first bike, the pub where she bought her first under-age drink. It had been a good childhood, she supposed. Nothing that would make much of a story. No major angst of any kind. Just a lingering sort of loneliness, perhaps, the sort she assumed many only-children suffered from. She could remember asking her parents once or twice if she could have a brother or a sister, but none had been forthcoming and she’d stopped asking the day her mother had told her that she couldn’t have any more children. ‘I had some difficulties . . . complications after your birth,’ she’d said rather mysteriously, but feeling in some way responsible, Lila had dropped the subject and it had never been mentioned again.

They wind their way up a steep country lane, past the old stone church where they’d held her father’s funeral, and on past rows of pretty flint-and-brick cottages until they reach the pub nestled on an immaculate village green high up in the Chiltern Hills. Lila parks her car next to a bank of gleaming sports cars and then guides her mother into the restaurant area. They order drinks and her mother hands a credit card to the young man behind the bar. ‘I’ll start a tab,’ she says.

They carry their menus to a table in the window and as they seat themselves on a low velvet bench the sun disappears behind the clouds, casting the dining room in sudden gloom. Through the window Lila can see barrels of geraniums fluttering in the breeze.

‘He’s famous,’ her mother offers in a whisper, nodding her head in the direction of a wrinkled man with a deep mahogany tan and a suspiciously full head of dark hair, holding court at the bar.

Lila squints and recognises him as someone from a long-running TV sitcom. ‘Oh yes,’ she says, giving her mother a wink, ‘it’s
that
kind of place, isn’t it?’

‘Your father did some legal work for him once. Apparently he’s a
very
difficult man . . . tight as a tick, too.’ She blushes. ‘At least, that’s what your father always said.’

Lila smirks and turns her attention to the menu. When they have chosen she heads back to the bar to place their order: sardines for her mother, a ploughman’s for her. Returning to the table, she sees the gift her mother has placed at her setting.

‘For your birthday,’ she says.

‘Thanks, Mum.’ Lila pulls the wrapping off and discovers a gold shoebox and, nestled inside, a pair of red velvet slippers. She looks at her mother, then back to the slippers. They are quirky and a surprise – her mother usually goes in for designer handbags and expensive cashmere sweaters – but Lila likes them. A lot. ‘They’re lovely, Mum, thank you.’ She bends down, slides off one of her ballet flats and tries a slipper on for size. ‘A perfect fit.’

Her mother tucks a loose strand of her fair hair behind her ears. ‘I saw them on a market stall in France. They reminded me . . . well, they reminded me of you. I hoped you’d like them.’ She swallows.

Lila smooths her fingers across the scarlet fabric. ‘They’re great. Thank you.’

‘I thought they were a bit of fun.’

Lila studies her mother for a moment, trying to read her face, trying to understand why she should suddenly look so sad. She wonders if she is back for good this time, or if it’s just another flying visit and is about to ask when she is interrupted by a waitress arriving at the table with their food. Lila looks away from her mother’s dish. It wafts a pungent garlic smell and the sardines swim in a pool of greasy butter, their cloudy eyes staring up at her, unseeing. The sight and smell makes Lila feel a little nauseous so she tears off a piece of bread from her roll and chews it slowly.

‘So, have I told you about my new book club?’ her mother asks as she skilfully strips the sardines of their flesh with her knife and fork.

Lila shakes her head.