The Mum Who'd Had Enough Page 19

  Not that I have anything to hide, I remind myself as Brett heads back to our table. Of course I am allowed to go out and meet friends. ‘So, how did your meeting go?’ I ask him.

  ‘The usual kind of scenario,’ he replies. ‘They had their own ideas, and I had mine, so it involved loads of discussion and compromise, but hopefully everyone’ll be happy with the end result.’ He grins and shrugs, and I decide he’s ageing terribly well: there are a few lines around his clear blue eyes, and his short dark hair is greying just a touch, but his youthful sparkle’s still there. The wide, warm smile, not to mention his trim body – he’s wearing a smart navy blue shirt and black jeans – all add up to one pretty attractive package.

  ‘I’m sure they will,’ I say. ‘What is it you’re doing for them?’

  ‘Well, they’re a savoury pie company,’ he explains.

  ‘Brogan Mitchell? Everyone knows them around here—’

  ‘That’s the one. So they’re looking for a new logo, packaging design – it’ll be rolled out onto all of their vehicles and products, that kind of thing.’ He says it so casually, as if it’s nothing much at all.

  ‘I’ve checked out your website,’ I tell him, deciding not to mention that I’ve pored over his Facebook page too. ‘You’re a brilliant designer, Brett. Your work’s sort of retro, which I love – but fresh and modern too.’

  He smiles. ‘Thank you, I’m glad you think so – but anyway, enough about that. What about you?’ His gaze meets mine, and he adds, ‘I assume your jewellery business is hardly top of your concerns right now …’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ I say quickly.

  Brett nods. ‘I wasn’t just trying to flatter you, that time we ran into each other in Smith’s. D’you remember that day?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I say, a tad too eagerly. I resist the urge to tell him I remember precisely what he said: You shouldn’t let your talent go to waste. ‘But honestly,’ I add, ‘I’m living with a friend right now, so first I need to sort out somewhere of my own to live, and of course, there’s the whole business with Nate, and trying to smooth things over with Flynn as best I can.’

  He sips his beer. ‘We don’t have to talk about any of that, if you’d rather not.’

  ‘No, it’s all right, really. What I mean is, it’s not a taboo subject.’

  ‘Okay,’ he says gently, ‘so what actually happened?’

  It strikes me as strange, as I skim over events of the past few years, that it all starts to tumble out far more easily than when I’m sitting in Rachel’s sparse therapy room. However, I remember now that Brett was always one of those ‘easy to talk to’ people – in that he genuinely listens, interjecting only now and then. I remember from college when he’d often end up with a drunk girl trying to latch onto him, babbling about her rotten boyfriend or how her lecturer didn’t ‘get’ what she was trying to do with her art. He was always kind to them – save the occasional surreptitious eye roll – and I lost count of the times he, sometimes aided by George, went off on missions to find a tipsy girl’s friends and make sure she was taken safely home.

  With just one glass of wine downed, I find myself telling Brett how Nate and I slipped into that state that so many long-term couples find themselves in: merely existing together. With a lack of thought and tenderness, virtually zero meaningful communication, sex about three times a year – I actually tell Brett this, I can hardly believe it – you’re left with a marriage that’s little more than a legal arrangement.

  ‘I can imagine how that must’ve felt,’ he says.

  ‘You haven’t been married, though, or with anyone for that long.’ I catch myself. ‘Sorry – that sounded terribly judgemental. I didn’t mean—’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Brett cuts in. ‘You’re right. Vanessa and I managed four years, but of course, we have Corey. We still get along …’

  ‘Then there was the quinoa girl,’ I remind him with a smile.

  He chuckles. ‘Hannah. Six months.’ His eyes glint playfully. ‘I’m making them seem like jail sentences, but actually, you know, they were good relationships at the time.’

  I consider this. Will I ever be able to look back at my marriage and consider it ‘good’?

  ‘So, with you,’ he continues, ‘there was no one single thing that made you leave?’

  ‘You mean, did he have an affair or something?’ I shake my head. ‘No, Nate would never have done that. In fact, the final straw was something terribly trivial …’ I pause, realising how trite this is going to sound. ‘We have mice, you see. And I’d been on at him to set the traps, and he just wouldn’t.’ I smile wryly. ‘I know it sounds ridiculous that I couldn’t bring myself to set a few stupid traps …’

  ‘Sounds reasonable to me. It’s the way they might snap down on your fingers when you’re edging them into position, right?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, relieved that he seems to understand, rather than viewing me as merely feeble. ‘So, it was sort of that – although of course, that wasn’t the real reason.’

  ‘I didn’t imagine you’d have walked out on your marriage because of a few mice,’ he says with a smile. Now we fall into talking about Flynn, and Brett’s son Corey, who shares a love of guitar playing. ‘Flynn can play guitar?’ he says in surprise.

  ‘Yes.’ I nod. ‘Nate taught him. He helped him work around the limitations with his hand mobility and came up with different ways for playing tricky chords.’

  ‘Wow.’ He blows out air. ‘That’s impressive.’

  ‘Yeah, Flynn’s very dedicated,’ I say, wondering now if he was referring to Nate.

  We have another round of drinks – Brett travelled by train today – and then a third. I tell him about my depression, medication and therapy (gratifyingly, he doesn’t grab his jacket and leave), then the conversation lightens as we catch up on gossip about various characters from our student days. By the time I go to the ladies’, I realise a whole two hours have flown by, during which we haven’t even touched upon the subject of where we might go for dinner. More crucially, I haven’t felt sad, or remorseful, since he walked into the pub. I’m just aware of wishing we could slow down time, and eke out the evening, as I make our way back to our table.

  We finish our drinks, and decide on a quick supper at the bistro at the far end of town; another rather forgotten haunt, which is half-empty and feels pleasingly old-fashioned with its candles in bottles dribbled with wax. We both order fish, and share sides of green beans with balsamic, a ceramic pot of dauphinoise potatoes, and yet more wine. And only now, in the flickering candlelight, with jazz playing softly, do I start to wonder what this night is really all about.

  ‘We should do this again,’ Brett says, setting down his cutlery onto his empty plate.

  ‘I’d love to,’ I say. ‘Honestly, apart from our reunion night, it’s pretty much the only time I’ve actually felt a little bit more like my old self.’ I pause. ‘Since it happened, you know.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad to hear that.’ Brett looks at me across the table, and something stirs in me, just as it did all those years ago, at that party, when we found ourselves kissing in a darkened hallway. His arms slid around me that night, and one thought rang loud and clear in my head – I am kissing Brett O’Hara! – as I leaned back into the thick layer of coats and jackets hanging on hooks behind me.

  The waitress clears our table. As Brett has to catch the last train back to Leeds, we decline dessert and coffee. There’s a small, good-natured verbal tussle as I insist on splitting the bill, and then I’m pulling on my new red jacket over the simple navy blue dress I chose so carefully tonight. My hair, which I scooped up into some approximation of a casual updo, has partly come undone, but I don’t care about that now.

  It doesn’t occur to me that anyone could spot us together as we start to walk through the back streets towards the railway station – because we are not doing anything wrong. Nor am I taken aback when we stop outside the station entrance, and Brett says, rather hesitantly, ‘I have t
o tell you, Sinead, you look absolutely lovely tonight.’

  I smile, sensing my cheeks flushing. ‘Thank you. You look good too. I’ve really enjoyed myself, you know. It was just what I needed.’

  ‘Me too, after a whole afternoon of pie-talk.’

  I laugh, and we pause for a moment, both of us feeling a spark between us; I know he senses it too, because he touches the side of my face, and then my heart seems to stop as he kisses me – not on the cheek this time, like an old college friend might, but softly on the lips.

  It’s not like that long-ago kiss at the party, which we realised afterwards had carried on for the entire duration of the hostess’s compilation CD. No, this one lasts perhaps a second or two. But I can still feel it, gentle as a feather on my lips, as we say our goodbyes, and he hurries away to catch his last train home. He turns and waves, then disappears from sight.

  For a few moments I just stand there in the deserted street, thinking: I have just kissed Brett O’Hara. In the days that followed the student party, when it became clear that we would just carry on as friends – that he certainly wasn’t looking for a serious girlfriend – I could barely look him in the eye. I just nurtured my secret crush, and even distanced myself for a while, in my heroic attempt to show that I held no romantic yearnings for him whatsoever.

  However, tonight I am neither embarrassed nor ashamed as I start to walk home. And when guilt niggles at me – guilt at how Nate and Flynn would react, if they knew – I steel myself and firmly push it away.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Nate

  Despite Sinead’s insistence that she’s still ‘not ready’ for an evening out with me, the last few days have passed in a not entirely disastrous fashion, in terms of working my way through The List. The records and shitty shelves have gone, and I’ve woken up on several mornings to be greeted by yet more mouse carcasses (carci?). More significantly, Flynn and I seem to have fallen into a new routine of him getting up for school with only minimal nagging (clearly, he is respecting my boundaries, whatever they might be!). Just as well Sinead doesn’t know that he is enjoying his new-style breakfast (Oreos, juice), despite my suggestions for healthier options.

  Mum has also called several times, and I hope I’ve handled her kindly but firmly. ‘I’m worried about you, Nate.’ ‘I’m okay, Mum. Really.’ ‘You say that – but I know you. You bottle things up. Can I come over, cook something for you?’ ‘Mum – I can cook perfectly well, thank you!’ And I really am fine – well, fine-ish – whiling away the evenings trying to read the same chapter of that Berlin book over and over. And tonight, on this wet Thursday, I even allowed myself to be hauled out for a few beers by Paolo, as Flynn was heading over to Max’s yet again.

  Like last time, we chose the Wheatsheaf over the Lamb and Flag (due to the Abby issue: I’m hopeful that I will be able to see her again, and visit her pub, once the dust has settled. I’m just not quite sure how long dust takes to settle in this kind of scenario). Anyway, the Wheat, as it’s known, was pleasantly buzzing by 8 p.m., and Paolo was buoyant company, full of amusing stories about rewiring a house and discovering a dead crow in an attic, and some lady trying to plant a kiss on his lips when he had only come around to fit a new centre light. This happens to Paolo. Women gravitate towards him – not that he would ever take advantage of any such situation, so devoted is he to the beautiful Bea.

  In return, I hope I amused him by telling him about a candidate of mine who reeked of booze – after a heavy session the night before – and another who, when told she’d failed, asked, ‘Could we just erase all that and start the test over again?’ Like there are second chances in life.

  As for my second chance with Sinead, we touched on it only briefly. Paolo was baffled, but amused, when I told him about my Tanzie encounter at Liv’s barbecue. ‘I’d never fraternise with a candidate normally,’ I added.

  ‘I wouldn’t call it fraternising,’ he said with a grin. ‘Sounds more like you were taken hostage.’

  ‘Actually,’ I remarked, ‘she was pretty helpful about how I might persuade Sinead to come back home.’

  ‘In what way?’ he exclaimed.

  I started to explain that it was all about showing I cared about her as an individual with needs and dreams of her own. ‘Although I’m not quite sure how I’m going to prove that I’m a better person now, if she won’t even agree to spend any proper time with me.’

  ‘She won’t see you at all?’ he asked, frowning.

  ‘Oh, just briefly, whenever I’ve dropped Flynn over at Abby’s.’ That’s how I always refer to that smart, modern house; I can’t bear to say ‘her place’.

  ‘Can’t you just buy her something really thoughtful, that she’ll love?’

  I shook my head. ‘This isn’t about giving her material things.’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ he urged me, ‘how about buying her something special, like, um … lingerie?’

  ‘Lingerie,’ I spluttered, ‘when we’ve split up? It hardly seems like the right kind of present, timing-wise.’

  Paolo chuckled. ‘I don’t mean tacky stuff. I mean something frighteningly expensive that she’d never buy herself. What d’you call those silky things for the top half …?’

  Unfortunately, this brought to mind the scrap of gauzy pink fabric I’d spotted poking out of the box when Sinead was bagging up her possessions. ‘Not sure,’ I said. ‘I’ve never been good on the names of women’s underwear. I mean, it could never be my specialist subject—’

  ‘Just as well it never comes up in the pub quiz,’ he said with a smile. ‘God, I used to study that stuff as a teenager. Pored over all these mail-order books that used to come into the house. Studied it like I was preparing for an exam.’

  ‘Pervert,’ I sniggered, draining my glass.

  ‘Oh, c’mon,’ he guffawed. ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t have a quick wank over the underwear section in your mum’s Grattan catalogue.’

  I spluttered. ‘I don’t think she ever got the Grattan’s catalogue.’

  ‘Well, it didn’t have to be Grattan. It could’ve been Littlewoods or—’

  ‘I think she got the Next directory,’ I added.

  ‘There you go, then. Bet you had a good pore over that …’

  ‘I was more interested in the storage solutions section,’ I retorted.

  Paolo rolled his eyes, and we laughed. ‘Bet you were. But I guess people are into all kinds of weird shit. My cousin had a thing about Esther Rantzen and her big teeth.’ This caused me to choke on a mouthful of beer which, while hardly decorous, cheered me up no end and reassured me, as we said goodnight and I started to make my way home, that perhaps the world as I knew it hadn’t ended.

  Thank God for friends, I reflected, suspecting that drunken sentimentality might have been taking hold. Although I’d only had three pints, they had certainly rushed to my head – perhaps because I hadn’t bothered with a proper dinner, just scoffed some sad-loner Jacob’s crackers and cheese. Just as well I’d booked a day off tomorrow – if only due to Liv nagging that I really must start taking some of the copious leave I had stacked up, and she really wouldn’t have me just working and working without ever taking a break.

  Chips, I decided: that was what was needed now. A lovely bag of steaming, salty chips – only, when I passed the most popular chippie, on the high street, they were just closing for the night. There’s another one, which I thought may be open later, tucked away down by the railway station, so that’s where I headed, feeling quite buoyant for a man who’d recently been dumped by his wife.

  The chippie was open, and I started on my bag of steaming fries as soon as I stepped back outside. I was just thinking that nothing tastes better than hot fried potato when you’re a bit pissed when I happened to spot a couple strolling along a few metres ahead of me. The man, I barely registered. But the woman … well, this was happening to me now and again: my heart sort of clenching whenever I spotted someone who looked a little like Sinead.

  I’d see
n phantom Sineads striding around Solworth while I’d been conducting tests, and yet more when I was out walking Scout. And here was another one, stopping now in front of the railway station’s entrance.

  I stood dead still and posted a chip into my mouth, suddenly not hungry at all. My God, she looked like my wife from the back. It was the hair colour, the shape of her shoulders and neck, and the way she carried herself. But the woman’s hair was styled in a way that Sinead never does hers, and she was wearing a swingy red jacket that, whilst eye-catching and stylish, wouldn’t be my wife’s kind of thing at all. And anyway, she was with her man.

  The couple turned to each other and kissed. Something about the sight of two people being so tender and affectionate caused my whole body to ache. One of them was obviously going to catch a train. For that moment, they looked as if it was actually quite painful for them to part.

  I knew I shouldn’t be standing there, staring like some kind of lunatic. So I turned quickly, dumped my barely-touched bag of chips into the nearest litter bin, and bent my head against the rain as I hurried home.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I spend my Friday off gardening, fiddling about on guitar and listening to music on Spotify on my laptop (I have to say, it lacks the depth and quality of vinyl; on the plus side, as it requires no physical storage, it cannot be deemed an eyesore). While it’s all pleasant enough, as the afternoon drifts on, I find myself looking forward to Flynn coming home from school. I’ve decided to suggest a pizza and movie night of our own tonight, as long as he doesn’t have other plans.

  However, when he appears, it transpires that he is intending to watch a film tonight – but not with me. Sinead is taking him to the cinema in Bradford. A proper city night out! Well, good for them. After a perfunctory résumé of his day, he rushes off. Apparently, she is parked in our street; they need to leave immediately as they’re eating out before the film. Pizza, probably. What’s wrong with the gigantic Marks & Spencer pepperoni – plus extra treats – that I went out specially for this afternoon?