‘I’m fine. It’s none of your business anyway, is it? How I seem?’ I know I’m overreacting, but I can’t stop myself.
He holds his hands up. ‘OK, OK. I was only asking. I do still care about you, you know. I know things haven’t worked out the way we planned.’ I raise my eyebrows at this, the understatement of the year, but he ignores me and carries on: ‘But I’ll always care about you, whether you want me to or not.’ I hear Polly’s voice in my head, snorting: care about you? He had a funny way of showing it. How long would I have gone on pretending everything was OK, if I hadn’t found the text message from Catherine on his phone that forced his hand?
I turn to go, but Sam stops me.
‘Wait, Louise.’
I turn, confused. ‘What?’
‘Have you heard about this school reunion?’
‘Oh. Yes.’ Why is he suddenly asking me about it now?
‘Are you going?’ he asks, and I think I can detect a dangerous note of hope in his voice.
‘I don’t know. Are you?’ I think of his name on the Facebook page. I know he is going.
‘Yeah, why not? Should be a laugh.’ He’s aiming for levity, but I’m not fooled. I think of the sixteen-year-old Sam, so cool, so popular. Is he hoping to have a night where he gets to be that boy again, with the world at his feet?
‘Maybe,’ I say as I walk away from him down the path. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow at five.’
‘OK, see you then.’ He closes the door softly and I get back into the car, struggling to breathe normally. How is it that he can still do this to me? When am I going to get to the stage where he can’t hurt me, where his words slip over me without even touching? As I drive away, I wonder whether I will ever be able to leave Henry with him without this terrible, gnawing sense of dread.
Chapter 15
2016
The rest of the day drags by. This is another part I haven’t got used to: the empty weekends. When Sam and I were together, I relished the rare occasions when I got to spend time alone. Sometimes, despite my all-encompassing love for Henry, it felt as though they were the only times that I was truly myself, when I got rid of this interloper who had entered my life at the same time as Henry had, this mother. But when Henry is at Sam’s now, I am lost. I know there are galleries and cinemas and museums I could be visiting, but I also know that if I do I’ll see some nuclear family going to see a Disney movie, or following the signs for the interactive family museum workshop, and I’ll feel a physical pain at the absence of the small hand that should be in mine.
I could see friends, I suppose, but Polly is often busy at the weekends ferrying the girls to their various activities, and even if she isn’t I don’t want to intrude on their family time – the spectre at the feast, reminding her and Aaron what life could look like if they’re not careful with each other. I do have other friends, but it’s frightening how easy it is to let them drift away. Turn down enough invitations and eventually even the most determined will stop asking. It would take a Herculean effort now to weave myself back into their lives and I don’t have the energy for it. Instead I watch from the sidelines on Facebook, liking photos of barbecues, birthday parties, days out, knowing that I only have myself to blame for not being there in the pictures.
What I often do is take the opportunity to catch up on some work. Rosemary has sent me several emails about different problems with one of her projects, and I know she’ll be surprised that I haven’t responded yet, but I just can’t settle to anything today. As soon as the clock crawls round to an hour whereby I can reasonably leave without being absurdly early, I’m out of the flat. I ought to have spent hours choosing what to wear, applying flattering make-up, styling my hair. The fact that I half-heartedly blow-dried my hair, bunged on a bit of mascara and lipstick and threw on jeans and one of my only ‘going out’ tops, doesn’t exactly bode well for the date.
I get off the bus on Piccadilly and walk up through Soho. For a girl like me who grew up in the sticks, there’s still something about living in London that gives me a thrill; not just the bright lights but the murkier depths too. When I first moved here, I was brimful of excitement at having an actual job in a real design agency, even if I was mostly making the tea. If I didn’t have plans to go out or see anyone in the evening I’d go into Soho and walk around, absorbing the heady scent of garlic and wine, chips and cigarette smoke, rubbish and drains. I felt alive, anonymous but part of something that counted, a heady mix of out-of-towners going to see Les Mis, hen parties and work nights out plus a hint of the old Soho – bon viveurs, sex workers and criminals.
Soho has changed, even in the last twenty years. There are more chain restaurants, more tourists, less obvious grime. It makes me wonder if I’ve changed too. Probably less than Soho. I’m not so open to change; I have to be on my guard all the time. I’ve created this persona of stability, contentment, a real average Josephine. Sam was the only one who knew the real me.
I arrive a few minutes early and there’s no sign of Greg in the bar. I’ve been studying his photo to make sure I’ll recognise him. I get a glass of wine and sit on a stool in the window, where I’ve got a good view of everyone coming in. Despite my lack of enthusiasm for dating in general, I begin to feel butterflies at the prospect of this, my first date in seventeen years. Every time a dark-haired man approaches, my stomach gives a little flip, settling back down when it turns out not to be him. By 7.15pm, the flips have been replaced by a churning ache. I didn’t give Greg my phone number as I didn’t feel comfortable before I’d even met him, but he could email me if he was running late. I check on my phone but there’s nothing. At 7.25pm I decide I’ve had enough. There’s a group of younger women at a nearby table and I am sure they’ve clocked that I’ve been stood up and are laughing at me. I suppose this is what I should have expected, what I deserve. I’ve been foolish to allow myself to indulge in this fantasy where I could have a normal relationship. I should have known the past wouldn’t let me go that easily.
I drain the last of my wine, flushed with humiliation, and stand up to leave. As I come out of the bar my phone beeps, and I take it out, expecting a notification from the email address that Polly set up for me, which I’ve added to my phone. But it’s a Facebook notification. Another message from Maria: Leaving so soon, Louise?
I stop, stock-still on the pavement, my legs almost giving way beneath me. It’s noisy but all I can hear is my panicked breathing and the beating of my own heart. Someone is watching me. I look around, but the street is busy, filled with ordinary people meeting friends, lovers. There’s a restaurant opposite with outside tables, the diners warmed by patio heaters. I try to scan their faces, but there are too many of them, tables behind tables, and anyway I don’t know who I’m looking for. My phone beeps again: