Grigori sits on a big carved wooden chair and produces a book. A thrill seems to move through the room, then silence falls. Grigori sounds like a Slavic Stephen Fry, which is entirely right for the story, a fable that concerns a woodcutter, a forest, orphans, Simnel cake, a reflecting pool, evil people, good people, mysterious people …
A blanket of calm floats on to me, easing the tightness in my chest. My breathing is slow and steady and strong, and I swear I can feel the actual insides of my stomach unclench. The beanbag takes my weight as I drift in the most delicious way. My eyes close, merciful sleep is coming for me – and I have a question. I pull Alastair’s sleeve. ‘Is Grigori an actor? Or is he real?’
‘He’s real.’
He’s real. I’m glad. I tuck that comforting thought into me and surrender again. I’m floating on a boat on a gentle sea. Sleep steals towards me, doing all the work. It doesn’t matter that I’m not in my own bed. I’ll stay the night here on this beanbag … I’ll pay whatever they want for the room. No amount of money is too much for this bliss …
‘Wha’?!’ I’m dreaming that small, furry creatures called coots have attached themselves to the sides of my face so I look like I’ve sideburns. I’m pulling and tearing, trying to get them off me …
‘Amy … Amy …’
I don’t want to be a woman with sideburns. ‘I’m no hipster!’ I call out – and, abruptly, I’m awake. Alastair’s face is looming over me.
‘Amy,’ he says tenderly. ‘Story’s over. It’s time to wake up.’
41
Thursday, 6 October, day twenty-four
The weirdest thing has just happened. A text in from Richie Aldin: Amy, can we meet? Quick conversation x
I’m flooded with alarm. What the hell is this about? Money? That’s all it can be. But what money? He’d stopped Neeve’s maintenance when she was eighteen.
My Thursday has just taken a turn for the worst.
The whole week has been a route march: a blur of early mornings, trying to get Kiara – and Sofie when she stays over – up for school, helping find the countless things they’ve mislaid, feeding the lot of us in the evenings, keeping on top of laundry and all the rest of the household shite, including countless random glitches and breakages, stuff that was usually Hugh’s remit.
On Monday night Mum nabbed me for Pop-sitting – more drinks with these mysterious friends of hers, whatever the hell she’s up to.
My two days in London almost felt like respite, because the only person I was responsible for was me.
Also, I’ve landed two new clients. My successful rehabilitation of Bryan Sawyer seems to have raised me above the radar, and to know that more money will be coming in is one worry eased.
Nevertheless, Hugh is perpetually in my thoughts. I’m moving through my life where everything is the same as it always was but poisoned by profound dread. Keeping myself from ringing him is utterly exhausting.
The urge to start smoking again has abated, which would be good news except that I’ve swapped it for another addiction: my online shopping has hit code red. My current obsession is with finding the perfect dress for the awards thing in Brighton. It needs to be sexy, formal, age-appropriate, funky, long, short and flattering. As a result of this demanding brief, every dress that arrives is wrong so has to be returned and three or four more ordered. I suppose I’m giving welcome employment to the DPD men, the UPS men, the Parcelforce men and the rest. All part of the trickle-down economy, right?
Buzzing with anxiety, I text Richie: What’s up?
Nothing bad. I can come to you x
I’d been planning to get my nails done after work, but I’m so panicky that I decide to cancel. Then I decide not to. Whatever he’s got on me, it can wait one more hour. I spent too many years dancing to his tune and it’s not about to start again. It’s hard, though.
I text: Meet me 7.30 the Bailey
Seconds later he replies: Too crowded. The Marker 7.45 x
No. The Marker is too far away and it’s in the wrong direction. Already weary from his bullshit, my next text says: I’ll be in the Bailey 7.30
Immediately K x pings back.
Sitting through the manicure and having to act normal is a challenge. It would have been tricky anyway, the way everything is tricky right now, but Richie has really put the wind up me. The beautician is chatty but speedy so we finish early and I duck into Brown Thomas to kill time by looking at lovely things. It’s madly busy. You can already sense Christmas, even though it’s only 6 October. It’s all too shovey and pushy, so at twenty past seven I give up and go to the pub.
It’s crowded but not full and, proving Richie’s objections wrong, I get a seat straight away. He’s so territorial: everything always has to be on his terms.
Oh, here he is, also early. Decked out in an expensive-looking herringbone tweed coat and some soft scarf in a shade of khaki. He spots me and nods, then someone – a woman – intercepts him. Watching the conversation, I see that she’s some sort of admirer. He speaks, he smiles – and she melts. Now he’s making his excuses and she’s looking downcast.
Finally he reaches me. ‘Sorry about that.’ He kisses my cheek, then straddles a nearby stool and peels off his scarf and coat. Underneath his coat he’s wearing a heather-coloured V-neck jumper in some lightweight wool. The purplish shade makes his hair look more golden and his eyes greener.
A scornful phrase from my teenage years speaks in my head: If he was chocolate, he’d eat himself.
He picks up my hand. ‘Nice nails. Pretty.’
‘Thanks,’ I mutter, too polite not to.
‘Just get them done?’
‘Yep. So,’ I ask, ‘what’s up?’
‘Drink?’
‘Got one.’ I indicate my vodka because this is definitely a vodka kind of conversation.
‘I’ll just get a …’ He goes to the bar and obviously gets served immediately because he’s back almost as soon as he leaves, with what looks like water, then rearranges his seat position so that he’s directly opposite me.
‘So?’ I ask.
‘Okay.’ He spreads his fingers on his thighs, takes a deep breath and looks me in the eye. ‘I want to tell you that I’m sorry.’
Surprise and suspicion silence me. Eventually I manage, ‘For what?’
Another deep breath. Another sincere gaze. ‘For leaving you. For you finding out the way you did. For not giving you enough money. For not seeing Neeve.’
I’m dumbfounded. I open and shut my mouth, then say, ‘Why now?’
‘I –’
‘Have you cancer? Found God? In recovery and doing your steps?’
‘No, none of them. Just … I owe you an apology.’
‘But …’ I’m really struggling. ‘Like, twenty years later?’
‘Twenty-two.’
Whatever.
‘Amy, I’m sorry to say that I didn’t see it for a long time, how selfish I was. It must have devastated you.’
‘It didn’t.’
‘I wasn’t suggesting …’ He’s Mr Sincerity. ‘Sorry, Amy, I didn’t mean to imply … Just you were young. And you had to bring up a baby on your own. It must have been hard.’
‘But it all worked out.’
‘I don’t know why it took me so long to see how selfish I was. I don’t know why I was so mean. When Neeve told me that Hugh had left you –’
‘Hold on a minute there. Hugh hasn’t left me. He’s taking time out. And it’s okay.’ No way am I getting into the complexities with Richie Aldin.
‘But Neeve said –’
‘She was wrong. Mistaken. Whatever. Wrong. Okay?’
He nods. ‘Okay. But when I – mistakenly – thought he’d left you, it made me think of how it must have been when I left.’ He looks as if he’s in anguish. ‘Do you think … I mean, can you ever forgive me?’
In that moment I realize that I forgave him a long time ago. The rancour must have just vaporized while I wasn’t looking. ‘I forgive you for leaving me the way you did. But I can never forgive you for all the ways you hurt Neeve.’
‘I know, I get it, and I’m going to make it up to her.’
Surprised, I say, ‘You can’t. I’m not being mean, Richie, these are just the facts. You can never give her back those years when she wanted a dad.’
‘I can. I will.’
There he sits, so calm and so certain, his glinty green eyes limpid with good intentions. ‘I don’t understand,’ I stammer. ‘How can you think … What I mean is, the only way you can fix Neeve’s childhood is with time travel.’
He laughs, but I’m not being funny.