When You Walked Back Into My Life (34 page)

‘Fin and I aren’t together any more.’

Another silence. ‘Oh … I’m sorry.’

‘Yeah, me too.’

‘So you’ll be living there by yourself, then.’

‘Yup.’

There was a pause.

‘OK … well, I’m good at wielding a paintbrush if you need more help.’ His reserve had finally softened. ‘And the baby?’

‘The baby’s fine.’

Since then, Simon had often come round, sometimes to help paint or clear things out at weekends. He’d occasionally accompanied her and Bel to choose baby clothes and equipment – being the only one with previous baby experience, he said. He’d even driven them both to IKEA for nursery furniture – the real test of friendship in Flora’s book. But although she felt totally at ease with him and the three of them were never short of things to say to each other, sharing a lot of laughter, she and Simon were still nothing more than friends. Flora sometimes caught him looking at her
in his quiet, intense way, and wondered how he really felt about her. For her part, she knew only that she had come to look forward to seeing him, that his presence was becoming an essential part of her life.

*

‘It’s a bit of a creepy colour.’ Bel pulled a face as she eyed the paint tin sitting on the dust sheet.

‘“Creepy”? What on earth do you mean? It’s just a very soft green. I thought it would be restful in the sitting room.’

‘Hmm. S’ppose it might look better when it’s on the walls.’

‘Well, let’s finish the baby’s room first. You can’t object to Linen White!’

They were sitting on sofa cushions on the recently sanded floor of the sitting room – the rest of the furniture was still stacked in the hall – each sipping from a takeaway carton of mixed-berry smoothie from the café opposite.

‘So how’s it going with Mum?’

Bel rolled her eyes. ‘Pretty rubbish. She’s stopped shouting all the time. Now she just wanders about, looking as if she’s going to cry. Hate it.’

‘And your dad?’

‘Yeah, I see him a lot, but never with Mum. He says she still won’t speak to him. And when I asked Mum if they were getting a divorce she just said ‘Of course not’, as if it was,
like, totally obvious they wouldn’t. I wish she’d just tell me what went wrong.’

Flora shifted uncomfortably on her cushion. ‘They’ll sort it out, Bel, I’m sure they will. It’s horrible for you, but give them time.’

‘So you keep saying. But she’s not even talking to
you
 – you haven’t seen her for months – so it’s got to be really, really bad.’ Her niece eyed her suspiciously. ‘You must know what happened, Flora. Please … please tell me.’

Flora met Bel’s pleading glance. It wasn’t the first time Bel had asked her, and each time she was forced to fob her off with some platitude about things being alright in the end. Eventually Bel had given up asking, but she wasn’t stupid.

‘Look, Bel, I’ve said before, it’s complicated. Your mum’s going through a difficult time. I don’t think it’s any one thing, just a weird phase in her life when she’s not coping with stuff.’ Her words, as usual on this subject, sounded thin and evasive.

Bel raised her eyebrows. ‘Yeah, well, that’s pretty much what Mum and Dad always say … basically nothing, nada, zip.’ She sighed, sucking the last of her smoothie noisily through the straw.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘No, I get it. You all think I’m a dumb kid who’s too
young to hear the truth. But hey, I’m fifteen. And it’s
my
family.’

Flora saw the tears and reached over to take her hand. ‘Come on. Let’s paint. It’ll take your mind off your stupid parents.’ She hoped Bel never had to hear about her mother and Fin.

For a while they painted. The walls were done, it was just the gloss along the skirting boards and around the sash-window frames that needed finishing. The room would be lovely: light, airy, calm. Flora thought of her baby lying cosily in the cot – which was still in a flat-pack awaiting Keith’s construction skills – and felt a frisson of anxiety.

‘Is Dr Simon coming round?’ Bel asked, as they paused to check their progress.

‘He said he’d try and drop by later, but he’s on call.’

Bel was suddenly fixing her with a strange look. ‘He’s so totally cute.’

Flora laughed. ‘Simon?’

‘Doh … yes, Simon. Who else?’ Her niece was still eyeing her. ‘Don’t you think he’s cute?’ Bel obviously liked the doctor, they had developed a teasing friendship over the previous weeks while helping with the flat.

Flora didn’t answer for a moment. ‘OK … yes, he is very cute.’

Bel looked triumphant. ‘So?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘So what are you going to do about it?’

Flora shook her head, pointing down to her swelling stomach. ‘Bel, I’m pregnant, in case you hadn’t noticed. You can’t think about that sort of thing when you’re pregnant.’ She saw Bel raise her eyebrows. ‘Trust me, you can’t. Simon and I are just friends. And anyway, who says he’s interested in that way?’

‘I says,’ her niece grinned broadly and turned back to the paint tray.

That night, as she lay in bed, Flora thought about that conversation. Was Bel right about Simon? Flora had seen those looks he gave her sometimes, but no one would consider romantic involvement with a heavily pregnant woman, or relish the prospect of dealing with another man’s child … would they …? She loved his dark eyes, his kindness; he made her laugh. But surely if he’d felt anything more for her, he’d have said something by now. She wondered how she would feel if he did.

*

Oxford Street on a Saturday morning was a dumb idea, Flora realised, as they wove their way through the crowds. But she was working all week, she didn’t have much choice.

‘Do I really need all these things?’ she asked Simon, gazing at the bewildering array of safety equipment, from
socket covers to fridge locks to door-slam stoppers. Simon picked up a starter pack of safety equipment.

‘Not sure you need to worry about it raiding the fridge any time soon.’

‘Or banging its head on the corner of the table. Did you have all this stuff for Jasmine?’

Simon gave her a wry smile. ‘We had a nanny instead.’

He seldom talked about his four-year-old daughter, but Flora knew that Carina, his ex-wife, made it really hard for him to see her.

‘I’m not going to get any of this stuff.’ She made the decision, putting the packet firmly back on the shelf. ‘The flat isn’t big, I’ll hear her cry without a stupid monitor. And all this stuff won’t be needed till she’s way older, if at all.’

‘Good plan. Parenting’s just another marketing scam these days,’ Simon said. ‘Come on, I’ll shout you tea at Sketch. It’s got comfy armchairs and deliciously decadent macaroons.’

Once in the plush, exotic surroundings of Sketch, Flora sank into her chair with relief. ‘Shall we share a cream tea …
and
some macaroons? Eating for two!’

‘And a blueberry éclair?’ Simon grinned up at the waitress taking their order. ‘Even though I’m not.’

‘Oh, I think pregnant dads can indulge as well as
pregnant mums,’ the waitress joked. As she disappeared towards the till, there was a brief awkwardness between them.

‘I suppose we do look like a couple,’ Simon said.

Flora gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘I suppose.’

They sat in silence, during which Flora suddenly realised that she would love it if they were. But the realisation made her even more self-conscious; she couldn’t even meet the doctor’s eye.

‘Have you thought about what sort of birth you want?’ Simon asked eventually, obviously searching for a safe topic of conversation.

‘Pain free?’ They both laughed. ‘I’m a coward, I’m afraid. I know I should be doing the NCT thing, but I want drugs – loads of them – and epidurals. The lot.’

‘Yeah, what you really want is for the baby to appear by your side like the Angel Gabriel.’

Flora smiled, then suddenly shivered. ‘God, it’s scary. Not just the giving birth – that’s bad enough – but then there’s the whole responsibility thing.’ She held her hand against her belly, gently stroking the growing bulge.

Simon watched her, chewing the corner of his index finger absentmindedly. ‘I suppose Fin will come down for the birth? But if … if he isn’t there for any reason, and you want someone to hold your hand …’ He shot her a quick glance.

‘He says he will … but thank you. Thank you, Simon. That’s very kind.’ She was more than touched by his offer, guiltily pushing away the hope that he might be there with her instead of Fin.

After another awkward silence, they began to talk about a film Simon had seen the previous week.

*

Flora stood next to the paint tins in the sitting room and sighed a big sigh. The room looked suddenly much bigger than she thought, and she was tired. The flat seemed to be taking ages to finish. All she wanted was to sit on the sofa in the pale green sitting room and relax. It was such a beautiful spring evening.

The bell rang. She wasn’t expecting anyone, and decided not to answer it. She couldn’t face a visitor right now. But it rang again, and she gave in, cursing under her breath.

‘Bad time?’ Simon Kent gave her a keen glance. ‘You look exhausted.’

She smiled. ‘I do feel a bit tired. I think it was seeing the vast expanse of wall I have to paint.’

‘Want some help?’

‘I wouldn’t mind your opinion about the paint I’ve bought. Bel thinks it’s “creepy”.’

Simon chuckled as he knelt on the floor to check the side of the tin. ‘Hmm, Sea Urchin 6 … interesting.’ He prised
off the lid with a paint-stained chisel belonging to the porter, and peered at the contents. ‘She could have a point, your niece. Looks a bit subterranean.’

Flora frowned.

‘You don’t like it? I thought I couldn’t have plain white in the sitting room, it’d be too cold. And this is very pale … more a greeny blue.’

Simon put his head on one side. ‘Sort of reminds me a bit of an operating theatre.’ He grinned up at her.

Flora frowned. ‘Stop it!’

‘Listen, it’s your flat.’ He stood up. ‘If
you
like it, that’s all that matters. My opinion doesn’t count.’

She nodded, but it wasn’t quite true. She knew she wanted him to be happy in it too. ‘Yes,’ she said now, ‘but I don’t want a clinical atmosphere. I want it to be warm and cosy.’

‘Well, it might be. Come on, let’s do a wall. See how it looks.’

The French windows were wide open, letting the warm spring breeze into the empty room; the radio played quietly in the background as they stood side by side, each with a roller, smoothing the operating-theatre green over the stripped and sanded surface. Glancing sideways at the doctor in his jeans and grey T-shirt, a smear of paint on his forearm, Flora couldn’t help smiling. She was actually happy – really happy – for the first time in months, maybe years.
Simon must have sensed her look, because he turned to her and smiled back.

‘Not looking too bad so far. You’re right, it’s not as green as I thought.’

‘So it doesn’t summon swabs and scalpels to mind?’

‘Not at first.’

They worked on until the wall was finished, then stood back to examine their handiwork.

‘Not sure I’m convinced,’ Flora said.

‘It’s not dry yet. Might end up lighter?’

‘Maybe. I’ll make some tea while we wait.’ It was beginning to get dark outside, and she turned on the small lamp plugged into the socket nearest the door.

When she came back with the mugs, Simon had brought two wooden kitchen chairs – Dorothea’s – in from the hall and placed them alongside each other, facing the just-painted wall but at a distance from it.

‘Looks like we’re about to watch a movie,’ she said, handing him his tea.

‘We’re going to sit and watch the wall, absorb the atmosphere, imagine it’s a normal evening and we’re here, talking about the day, with a glass of wine …’ He stopped, looking suddenly embarrassed by the intimate scenario he had outlined. ‘Just to try and see if it’s a colour you can live with,’ he added quickly.

They lapsed into silence and began staring at the wall. Then, from the radio came John Denver’s lilting voice: ‘You fill up my senses …’ and Flora was vividly reminded of Simon humming the song as he waltzed with her that night, all those months ago, in this very room.

‘They’re playing our song,’ Simon said, with a small smile, holding his hand out to her. ‘Flora Bancroft, would you honour me with this dance?’

He pulled her to her feet, and they took off around the empty room, their socked feet swishing on the polished boards as he gently guided her, his steps flowing and confident, their bodies close. The words rang in her brain … ‘come, let me love you …’ It was a song that spoke of a man completely inhabited by his love for a woman.

The music finished, but they went on waltzing for a few more turns of the floor. When they finally stopped, they still stood together, Flora’s hand resting on Simon’s shoulder, his arm around her waist, their other hands clasped. She glanced up at him in the soft glow from the single lamp, and saw his eyes so full of emotion as he looked at her that it took her breath away. Her heart began to race.

‘Flora …’ he whispered, hesitating for only a moment before bending to kiss her softly, tentatively on the lips. And she felt in that moment, as his mouth met her own, that she never wanted the kiss to end, never wanted to leave his
embrace again. For a long time they just stood there, holding each other, not speaking.

‘I’ve wanted to do that for what seems like a lifetime to me … but I hope you don’t think …’ He glanced down at her swelling figure. ‘I mean, it’s probably not the right time.’

In answer, she reached up and kissed him again.

*

Flora woke the next morning to find herself smiling with happiness. She and Simon had stayed up late – camped on the sofa in the hall – talking and laughing together, sometimes holding hands, a bowl of hummus and pitta bread between them, until he had finally taken himself off home across the road. She didn’t quite believe – after all this time as colleagues, then friends – what magical thing had happened to them both last night, but she felt as if a dam had burst, all the pent-up embarrassment and constraint between them swept away by his kiss.