Accidents Happen A Novel

CHAPTER TEN



It was six-thirty the following evening by the time Saskia finished work in central Oxford and made her way slowly to Hubert Street.

She walked along, blinking, thinking crossly about work.

The contracts had come through from the marketing agency this morning, and she’d spent the day setting up an official Twitter account, relieved that Dad and the partners were finally listening to sense about needing to move with the times and promote the agency through social media. By lunchtime she had thirty-nine followers.

‘Look at that!’ Dad had exclaimed in the office, summoning a few others to look at Saskia’s screen, to her embarrassment. ‘Don’t know how you get the hang of these technical things so quickly, Sass.’

Saskia stomped towards Kate’s house. It was not that difficult. Dad could have done it himself, in no time. He wasn’t an idiot. She reached Hubert Street and looked up apprehensively.

At least Kate would be going out to her therapy session in north Oxford, but first they had to face each other.

They hadn’t spoken since Gate-gate, as Saskia was now calling Friday’s showdown. She hadn’t spoken to Mum about it, either. Just spent the weekend having a drink with her book group in the village and going through her divorce papers from Jonathan, desperately trying not to ring and beg him to reconsider.

Nervously, she rang the bell.

Kate opened the door. ‘Hi.’

‘Hi,’ Saskia said, meeting her eyes awkwardly – then did a double take.

Kate had transformed. She was wearing new dark skinny jeans that actually fitted her instead of the old size tens that hung from her loosely, and a tailored white summer shirt Saskia hadn’t seen before. She was wearing make-up, too. Just a touch, but it was there. Soft blush on her cheeks, a touch of eyeliner and mascara. Perhaps that was what had put a new light in her eyes. The startling little flecks of gold that had been tarnished for so long were sparkling again, as if given a good polish.

‘Come in,’ Kate said. Sass followed, taken aback. Kate’s dark hair had been blown dry and sat silkily just below her shoulders. From the back, the jeans reminded her what long legs Kate had. The shirt was doing wonders, too, to cover up her corset-thin waist, and the bony protuberances of her shoulders and arms. Saskia blinked. She hadn’t seen Kate look like this in years.

The old sense of insecurity awakened.

It had been difficult when Hugo arrived back from university all those years ago, enthralled with the self-assured girl from Shropshire he brought with him. Those first times the five of them went out together, Dad sweeping them into a restaurant or on a birthday visit to the theatre, Saskia had realized that it was now Kate who people – men and women – looked at before her.

Then after Hugo died, one day, it just stopped.

On the street, men had started to glance at Saskia first. Sometimes they didn’t look at Kate at all. It was as if Kate’s beauty had died with Hugo. Water drained from the flower.

Saskia followed Kate into the kitchen, uncertainly, and sat at the table.

‘So . . .?’ she said tentatively, watching Kate pull a bottle of white wine from the fridge.

‘What?’

‘Well . . .’

‘I don’t want to talk about it, Sass.’

Saskia sat back.

‘Look,’ she started awkwardly, ‘for the record, I was really cross with you about that f*cking gate. I mean, for God’s sake, Kate. But I had no idea Mum was going to turn into Ninja Helen . . .’ She lifted her arm in a karate chop and crossed her eyes.

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ Kate repeated.

Saskia blinked hard and poured them each a glass of wine. Kate worked around her, clearing up the mess from tea and putting out a plate of pasta with pesto for Saskia that she’d kept warm in the oven. Saskia tried to gauge her mood.

‘Right – so how angry are you with me? On a scale to one to ten?’

‘To be honest, I don’t know what I feel.’ Kate sighed, sitting down and gulping her wine. ‘I just know I can’t talk about it with you right now.’

‘OK, but you’re going to see this woman. Tonight?’

Kate took another sip, put down her glass. ‘I’m getting help, yes.’

They surveyed each other.

Perhaps it was seeing her dressed like this, but Saskia found herself wanting the old Kate back in a way she hadn’t done for a long time.

She ran a finger down her wine glass, imagining telling Kate that she’d sat outside Jonathan’s office at lunchtime in a cafe just to catch a glimpse of him. Imagining telling Kate the truth about the mess of her marriage, and about how fed up she was working for Dad but could see no way out. For an agonizing second, she pictured curling up with Kate on the sofa, like in the old days, and talking till their honking laughter woke Hugo and he came downstairs, crumpled and cross, and told them to shut up.

But the chill emanating from Kate told her not even to think about it.

‘Is it all right to stay tonight?’ Saskia said in the end, motioning to her wine. ‘I left the car at the village station.’

Kate nodded. ‘Of course.’

‘Can I borrow some knickers tomorrow?’

Kate stood up and shut the dishwasher. ‘Help yourself – you know where they are.’

Saskia saw her pause. Kate swivelled round. ‘Actually, if you’re staying over, do you mind if I stay out for a while afterwards? One of the school mums is having a birthday drink at a bar on Cowley Road later?’

‘Yeah. Of course.’ Saskia tried to keep the surprise from her voice. Kate was going out? Well, at least that was something positive she could tell Mum. Kate seeing friends and going to therapy. It might defrost the situation before Helen had any more earth-shattering notions about taking Jack away.

Kate hung a cloth over the tap.

‘Right. I’d better go. I have to be there at half seven. Oh, and I’m not expecting anybody tonight, so can you not . . .’

Kate stopped mid-sentence, the words teetering on the end of her tongue.

‘. . . answer the front door when it’s dark,’ Saskia finished for her. ‘Don’t worry. I know the house rules.’

Kate turned away. ‘It’s not a house rule,’ she retorted over her shoulder.

Saskia shrugged. There was no point inflaming the situation.

Kate picked up her bag. ‘And can you make sure Jack’s in bed by nine?’

‘Yup. Will do.’

The mention of Jack made Saskia flick her eyes away from Kate guiltily. She had checked his Facebook before she’d left the office and seen how quickly he’d been swamped with friends. She’d also seen a quiz posted by someone called Sid entitled ‘Is Jack a dick – yes or no?’ with his friends, including Gabe, all apparently ‘jokingly’ agreeing that Jack was.

‘Thanks – see you later,’ said Kate, grabbing her jacket and finishing her wine in one gulp. She headed out of the kitchen and shouted, ‘Bye, Jack!’ into the sitting room before stopping by the front door to grab her bike helmet.

Saskia sipped from her own glass and turned.

Kate was checking her reflection in the hall mirror. It was so long since Saskia had seen her sister-in-law pay the slightest attention to her appearance that she couldn’t stop staring.

Tonight men would be glancing at Kate again, she realized. With a pang of sorrow, Saskia thought of Hugo. One day his self-assured girl from Shropshire would not be his any more. She would belong to another man.

She blinked, and turned away.

No. She had to be positive. Think of Jack and keep trying to support Kate – not wind her up. And the good thing was, it looked like the therapy was already helping.

It had not been an easy choice, but in the end Kate had picked the Hanley Arms, just a quarter of a mile from Hubert Street. Far enough away that Saskia wouldn’t spot her go in there and realize she was lying about the therapy, and close enough to home to be able to cycle back along the quiet pavements later tonight, and avoid thinking about traffic accident statistics.

She arrived to find Jago locking his newly fixed bike to a lamp post outside. ‘Good timing,’ he called. He looked up at the pub. ‘Your local?’

‘Kind of,’ she lied, locking her own bike to a railing. She had been in here once with Saskia. You had to know people in a pub for it to be your local. ‘New tyre, then?’ she ventured pointlessly.

‘Yup. Thanks for the recommendation.’ Jago smiled, opening the pub door open for her. She passed through with her own nervous ‘thanks’.

He was wearing jeans and a slim navy shirt over it that made his eyes look even bluer, and properly exposed the thin leather band around his neck. Suddenly, Kate felt completely tongue-tied. Her mind went blank. What had she been thinking? She couldn’t think of one word to say to this man. This was awful.

It didn’t help when she heard jeers coming from inside the pub.

‘What do you want to drink, Kate?’ Jago said, walking up to the bar.

‘Um, white wine, thanks,’ she muttered, glancing to the source of the noise. It was a group of five or so men in football shirts, their bodies and faces moving jerkily, en masse, as they swore and bantered with each other, and threw back pints and laughed in ferocious, loud cackles.

She was so occupied with the men that she didn’t realize what she had done at first. It was only when Jago turned and asked ‘Ah – Chardonnay or Sauvignon Blanc?’ that she realized she was about to order her second glass of white wine tonight. Which would push her daily limit over three units and increase her chances of cancer.

‘Sorry. Actually, could I change that, could I have a soda and . . .’ she started to say, then saw Jago’s face. His intelligent eyes watched her earnestly.

Just don’t think about it. That’s what he had said. Don’t even think about it.

‘A what?’ he asked.

She summoned up Jack’s anxious face. ‘No, actually, either’s fine,’ Kate muttered. ‘I’ll get a table.’

Quickly, she moved as far away as she could from the men, who were watching a raised television near the bar. She wound her way through ten empty tables till she could go no further, and stopped at the toilets.

She saw Jago turn to place the drinks on a nearby table, then look up to see her miles away. He shot her a playful look.

‘Is this a special table?’ he asked, wandering over.

‘No . . . Sorry. I just thought it was quieter.’

He sat down and looked around. ‘No. It’s fine. Excellent for the toilet, and –’ he pointed at the wall – ‘the fire extinguisher.’

She smiled, despite herself. ‘Have you been teaching this afternoon?’

He nodded and regaled her with a story about a super-smart but cocky student of his who he had noticed banging his knee up and down, then discovered was wearing earphones under his beanie during a lecture.

‘And, to cap it all, when I question him about it, he says he’s listening to a recording of my lecture from last week, cheeky little bastard. Anyway, tell me about the project you’re working on.’

Kate tried to gather her thoughts. But they kept slipping to the other side of the bar. ‘Get in there!’ one of the football fans growled, standing up and throwing one arm at the television screen, as his mates yelled behind him, then clapped.

‘It’s a house in Islington that the developer I work with, David, is going to turn back from three flats into a house . . .’ she started, forcing herself to recall details about plans they had to restore the stonework at the front, trying to ignore the way each shout made a band of stress tighten around her chest.

‘So, what kind of work placements do you give these kids?’ Jago asked politely.

She looked up to see one of the football fans staggering towards them, eyes bleary and unfocused. As he went through the door into the toilet beside them, he burped loudly.

Gripping her palms together tightly, Kate tried to ignore it. She tried to explain to Jago about how the kids had a chance to work with each member of the renovation team, from the architect to the craftspeople such as the stonemasons, to the high-spec interior decoration at the end, to see which area of the renovation they enjoyed. And how, if they really took to it, the foundation would sponsor them through A levels, and then maybe a degree in a relevant subject, such as architectural design or art history – Kate’s own subject at university – or, if they were really committed, even architecture.

In turn Jago asked some intelligent questions, which she tried to answer. But it was no good. Every instinct was telling her to get out this pub. To run as far from these men as she could.

She fixed her eyes on Jago, trying desperately to ignore them. The conversation turned back to his experience of publishing a book, and then to his lectures at Oxford.

‘Term finishes next week. Then there’s a summer school I’ll teach for a while before I head back out to the States in August for a month.’

‘You F*ck-ing WANK-er!’

Kate jumped. The largest of the men had leaped out of his seat and was shaking his fist at the telly, while the others jeered in a chorus. She desperately tried to remember what Jago had just been saying.

‘What are you doing in the States?’

‘I’ve got a bit of personal stuff to tie up in North Carolina where I was teaching and doing research, then I’m heading over to Utah with friends to do some mountain-biking.’

‘Oh,’ she said, looking at the men again. ‘So, where did you say you lived in Oxford?’

‘I’ve got a room at Balliol.’

‘At Balliol? Really? Is it nice?’

He drained the bottom of his pint. ‘It is nice. All stone steps and bay windows where I can stand and smoke a pipe. If I actually smoked a pipe.’

Kate nodded, distracted. ‘So is your room nice?’ she repeated inadvertently, glancing back over at the football fans.

When Jago didn’t reply, she turned back to see him watching her.

‘What?’ she said.

‘Kate. What’s going on?’

She froze.

‘Why did you really choose this table?’

‘It’s quiet.’

‘You mean, not near those guys?’

She shrugged. ‘They’re quite noisy – don’t you think?’

All of a sudden, she felt a little drunk. A little out of control. It had been so long since she’d drunk two glasses of wine.

Jago leaned forward onto his elbows. ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you look really nervous.’

Kate bit her lip. Horrified, she felt the tears back again, trying to break through. She swallowed hard to make them go away.

‘Do you know these guys? Because you look terrified of them.’

She dropped her eyes, defeated.

‘No.’

‘So – what is it?’

She shrugged. ‘They just seem a little aggressive.’

‘Do they?’ He looked over. ‘So, you’re worried about what they might do, rather than what they have done.’

Kate glanced up, surprised.

‘Yes.’

She dropped her eyes again, ashamed. It was time to go. She was a disgrace, a mess. She couldn’t even have a quiet drink in a pub without this bloody nonsense ruining everything.

‘Kate. Here.’ She looked up to see Jago standing up. He was holding out his hand. She took it. It was dry and warm.

She stood up, trying to hold herself together. He understood, she realized with gratitude. He was taking her out of here to another pub.

Jago led her through to bar towards the front door. However, as they reached it, to her bewilderment, he kept going towards the men.

Kate’s heart skipped a painful beat, and she began to fall back. But Jago kept leading her firmly.

With her hand in his grasp, Jago approached the largest of the group. Kate struggled but he wouldn’t let go. The man was so big that his cheeks were as wide as a pig. His eyes were lost between folds of skin, his head shaved round the back, with black hair gelled into spikes on top. Forearms the size of Kate’s thighs burst out of the sleeves of his football shirt.

‘Don’t,’ she whispered.

To her horror, Jago walked straight up to the man and slapped him on the back.

‘How’s it going, lads?’ Jago said, pointing at the screen. ‘What’s the score?’

Kate’s legs began to shake.

The man put down his pint and surveyed Jago belligerently with his tiny eyes. Jago met his stare face on. The man’s mates watched, beers suspended in mid-air in thick-fingered hands.

He opened his mouth.

‘Two–nil, mate – f*cking beauty, that last one.’ He lifted up his arm as the crowd on the screen cheered the opposition’s run towards goal. ‘Mark him, you f*cking wanker!’

Jago smiled, as he took Kate’s hand again and led her past towards the door. ‘Thanks, lads.’

‘See you, mate,’ the man called, raising his pint. His tiny eyes turned to Kate, who was now pale with fright. ‘Night, love.’

She walked outside, her heart hammering so hard in her chest that it was difficult to breathe properly. Her legs felt as if the muscles and bones had been removed inside and they were about to collapse.

She put out a hand to touch the wall.

Jago turned.

‘Kate! What the f*ck? You’re shaking,’ he exclaimed.

She tried to speak and it came out as a stammer. ‘Why . . . did you . . . do that?’

He took her shoulders. ‘They’re just lads out for a drink. It’s the end of the season; they’re hyped up. But they’re harmless. Kate? What’s going on?’

To her horror, she couldn’t hold the tears back. They flooded into her eyes.

‘Oh, shit. Are you sick?’ Jago sounded concerned.

‘No.’

‘Then . . .?’

She wiped away the tears, ashamed.

‘Kate! Seriously. What did you think they were going to do?’

She shook her head, hating herself. He reached out and took her shoulders gently. Self-consciously, she pulled back, disconcerted at being so physically close to a man after all these years. She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I know they seem OK to you, but to me . . .’

‘What?’

He watched her carefully.

‘I can’t explain it, OK?’ she said. Her voice sounded strident and ugly. She threw up her arms, banging into his. ‘I’m a freak.’ She felt him flinch. Pulling out of his grip, she turned away. ‘That’s all I can tell you, Jago. I’m sorry I suggested a drink. It was a really bad idea.’

She started to put her helmet on but, in her rush, dropped it on the pavement with a crack.

‘F*ck!’ she cried, throwing her hands up in the air. She had to get out of here.

‘Kate!’ Jago repeated calmly. He leaned over before she could, and picked up her helmet, but didn’t give it back to her. ‘What do you mean, you’re a freak?’

She shook her head. This was dreadful. ‘Jago, I’m sorry. I just don’t want to talk about it. I’ve got to go.’

But he wouldn’t move out of her way. ‘Oh no. Not till you tell me.’

A pit of disappointment opened up inside her. Now he was starting to see what she was really like, he was going to cycle off in a second, and that would be it. In all the bloody years she’d lived in Oxford, he was the first person she’d felt any type of real connection with. Tiny, but real. And it had given her hope. For whatever reason, he was the first person she felt able to talk to since losing Hugo.

And she was going to make him disappear, thanks to her f*cking anxiety.

Fighting back fresh tears, Kate knew she had ruined whatever chance she’d had of getting to know this man. ‘Look. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be like this. I just can’t be around other people right now. It’s complicated. It’s my fault. Not yours. I’d better go.’

She reached out to take her helmet from him, but Jago put it behind his back. ‘No. Not until you tell me.’

What was he doing? ‘You don’t want to know.’

‘Why don’t you let me decide that?’

She looked at him defiantly. He held her gaze. What the hell? She’d never see him again anyway.

‘OK. Well, if you really want to know . . . It’s hard for me to be around people like that . . . Because of my husband . . .’

Jago glanced quickly at her wedding ring. ‘Oh right. I’d assumed that you . . .’

‘No. My husband – he died.’

Jago brought down his hand with her helmet to his side. ‘Oh God. I’m sorry.’

‘No, it is not your fault. You wouldn’t have known. I just . . . I shouldn’t have come. I’m sorry. I just – when we spoke. It seemed to help.’

‘With what?’ Jago dipped his head to the side. It was such an understanding gesture, one she had seen Sylvia make in their session, that she felt a lump in her throat. She shook her head. ‘It’ll sound crazy.’ The second time she’d said that in the past week.

He touched her arm. ‘Come on. Trust me. I’m a doctor. Of mathematics, but it’s still worth a try.’

She gave a reluctant smile. The fading light was throwing their faces into shadow. Jago waited patiently for her to speak. What did she have to lose?

‘OK. It helped because I spend a lot of time doing this. A huge amount of time, actually. Worrying about what might happen to me and Jack. I have this constant obsession about the chances of bad things happening to us.’

‘What do you mean, “chances”?’

She rolled her eyes, anticipating his surprise – or, worse, amusement – at how crazy it was going to sound. ‘Chance, odds, statistics. You know, “You have a 15 per cent chance of having a bike accident if you cycle on a weekday compared to 10 per cent at the weekend”. That kind of thing.’

Jago looked shocked. ‘Is that why you wanted the book?’

She nodded and her voice dropped to a miserable whisper. ‘And if you want to know the truth, it’s ruining my life in so many ways I can’t begin to tell you.’

‘Are you serious?’

She regarded him, curious at the tone in his voice. He wasn’t laughing at her, or suddenly remembering he had to be somewhere else.

Jago turned and sat on the pub wall. ‘Bloody hell. You poor thing. Do you know, Kate, I was just talking to my publisher in the States about this last week. There’s a psychologist working on a book about exactly this.’

Why hadn’t Sylvia known that?

‘It’s an emerging phenomenon, apparently: people trying to gain a sense of control over their lives by using statistics to do with safety or health. Living with a constant fear of imagined danger. The closest my publisher could compare it to was a kind of obsessive compulsive disorder.’ He stuck out his lip like a naughty boy. ‘Kate, I’m sorry. Now I feel bad. Is that why you were asking me about how you put these things out of your head?’

She looked away, embarrassed.

‘That’s hard. Sorry.’

‘No, really. It’s really not your fault,’ she said more calmly, knowing it was time to end this embarrassing encounter before she humiliated herself any more. ‘But, listen, I think it’s better if I just go . . .’ She held her hand out for her helmet.

‘Go? No!’ Jago said. ‘No way. I feel a bit responsible now. Right. Just give me a second to think.’ He turned one way, then another.

‘Right. I know.’

‘What?’

’Get on your bike,’ he said, giving her the helmet.

‘What?’

‘Come on.’

Before she could stop him, he jumped on his – without a helmet, she noticed queasily – and set off to the end of the street, where the road turned into an alley that she knew led to the river.

‘Where are you . . .?’ Kate called out.

‘Come on!’ he shouted back.

Before she could reply, Jago disappeared. Kate looked around her. Damn. If she didn’t follow him, she might lose him altogether and he’d think she’d gone off without saying goodbye. Shakily, she unlocked her bike, put on her helmet, checking it quickly for cracks, and rode down the pavement towards the alley.