Swimming Upstream

14

The beginning of 1993 was marked by the inauguration of William Jefferson Blythe III, now President Clinton, and we both began our new jobs on the same day. I sat in the newsroom and watched the ceremony on Sky with my new producer, Kim, Clive Cullen, the breakfast show presenter, who had just finished his shift and the programme editor, Sandy, who was also my new boss. I looked around happily at my new environment, and my new colleagues and listened to the President while he announced the arrival of spring “in the depth of winter” and pledged a time of dramatic change, hope and renewal. I was inspired, and gave myself a little message of hope about the year ahead. It had to be better than the last one, I thought.

Martin crept back slowly into our lives. I couldn’t understand how this could have happened but he seemed to be on his best behaviour and slowly I came to accept that this was what Catherine wanted and it wasn’t my decision to make. The balance of power had shifted noticeably between them, though; Catherine was living with me, she was happy and she had no intention of moving back in with him, or of giving up her new life.

“It’s like the beginning all over again,” she told me happily one morning as she got ready to go out for rehearsals for a fringe theatre adaptation of an Ibsen play that she was staging with a group of drama students she had met on a theatre workshop. “And I want to keep it that way. This is the real Martin. I don’t know what happened to us, before, you know. But he’s back to who he was again.”

I chopped up lettuce and tomatoes and fetched cheese from the fridge. I was going for a walk and a picnic with Zara. “You really think people change just like that?” I said, trying to mask the irritation in my voice.

“Yes. Sometimes they do,” she told me, authoritatively.“It doesn’t always have to be an unhappy ending you know.”

“What, domestic violence?”

A cloud crossed Catherine’s face, and she cringed, visibly. “It was only once or twice that actually happened. I know he could be moody and stuff, but that never happened before…”

“He was controlling you, Catherine. In some ways that was worse.”

“He didn’t mean to. There’s stuff from his past that he hasn’t yet resolved. And it makes him unhappy, some- times. And insecure, about us. The problem was that I didn’t know how to deal with that, before, or how to handle his moods.”

“Catherine, you said it yourself, that day remember, up on the heath? That you didn’t know who you were anymore. That you were lost.”

“Well, now I’m found.” She grinned at me. To her credit she wasn’t defensive, just highly persuasive, like a saleswoman selling me some useless item that I didn’t need or want, and trying to convince me that I did. “Look Lizzie, he loves me, he really does. He’s so sorry about what happened, you wouldn’t believe. He’s promised to make it up to me. You’ve seen what he’s like now. He nearly lost me for good, and he knows it.”

“Oh he’s trying really hard, I’ll give him that.” I turned and elbowed a cup off the kitchen counter. It bounced on the floor and cracked in half. I swore loudly and bent down to pick it up.

“Look,” she said. “Just give him a chance. Please Lizzie. For me. If things go wrong again you can say “I told you so.” But he isn’t the only one who’s changed. I’ve changed too. I’m stronger, and he knows that. If he gets in a mood, I don’t have to react the way I used to. I’ll tell him straight, any more of this and I’m out the door. I was part of the reason he behaved the way he did. I was too weak, too much of a victim.”

“Oh please,” I sighed. “You’ll be telling me you walked into doors next.”

“It’s true!” Catherine stopped loading the dishwasher and grabbed my arm. “It takes two to tango, Lizzie. If I had been less of a doormat, less of a pushover, it may have all happened differently. Next time he gets into a mood, I will stand up to him, fight back.”

“Yeah, good luck with that,” I muttered and went off to my room.

A moment later, Catherine appeared in the doorway. “Can you honestly say, with your hand on your heart that you don’t like him at all?”

I sat on my bed and thought about how happy the last couple of months had been, Catherine and I both busy all day pursuing our careers, Martin turning up in the evenings with Chinese takeaways for all three of us, bringing flowers for us both, tenderly re-potting an orchid that I had knocked off the windowsill one evening. I remembered him on his hands and knees, carefully clearing up all the scattered soil from Lynne’s cream carpet, scooping it up in his hands so that it wouldn’t get ground in. Martin popping round after work with a bottle of wine, asking both me and Catherine about our day, showing real interest in the people I worked with, laughing at our jokes. Martin fixing the plumbing in the bathroom when the toilet stopped flushing, without having to be asked.

It was true that he was making an effort. And not just with Catherine. He included me in everything, asked if I wanted to come too when they went out for a drink or a meal. Things had definitely changed and not just for Catherine, but for me, also. I was no longer the enemy, the one that might take Catherine away from him, or help her see the light. He acted as if I was his friend now and it was hard, very hard to hate him.

“A man hits you once, he’ll hit you again,” I warned her.

“That’s just a cliché,” Catherine said.

“Well, clichés are clichés for a reason.”

“That’s a cliché too,” said Catherine. “It’s like ‘All men are potential rapists.’”

“No it’s not. And what was said was actually ‘All men are rapists.’ That’s a feminist doctrine. What I am saying is statistics. I’m not trying to be Germaine Greer here, I just don’t want to see you hurt.”

“I won’t be,” pleaded Catherine. “Things are different now. I can see now where I’ve been going wrong. It’s almost as if I was...” she tailed off.

“Asking for it?” I suggested.

“Well, sort of.”

“Are you serious? You’re saying you wanted him to hit you?”

“Not consciously, no. But maybe on some level, yes, I did. There was a part of me that thought that it proved how much he loved me, that he would get that passionate, that jealous.”

“But, that’s absurd!”

“And maybe there is another part of me that thought that was all I deserved.” Without warning, Catherine’s face started to crumple. I patted the bed beside me. Catherine came and sat down and I put my arms around her.

“Why on earth would you think that?”

Catherine shrugged and wiped at her eyes. “I don’t know. I suppose my dad was quite moody too. Not like yours, not violent or anything. But I grew up watching the way my mum tiptoed around him and deferred to him...” She paused. “Then I meet Martin and… it’s like that’s how I expect it to be. It’s like a dance, and we both know the steps. When he gets moody, I cower and shrink inside myself, instead of standing up for myself. And he disrespects me for that. And so it goes on.”

“So how do you change that?”

“You both have to learn new ways of being, of dealing with things.”

“But what if he doesn’t want to? What if he doesn’t know any other way to be? What if he’s just one of these men who like to be in control? Like the sort of blokes that whistle and leer at you in the street; they do it to unbalance you, to show they’ve got all the power.”

“Martin’s not like that.”

“I hope you’re right.”

Neither of us spoke for a while. There was something else. I was thinking about the time that Martin had kissed me, but I couldn’t tell Catherine about that. Seven years of friendship with Marion and Julia had taught me that that kind of honesty never comes out well for the woman. And what if I’d got it wrong? I ran over it again in my mind. All he’d done was kiss me on the cheek. Maybe it was genuine compassion; he was just feeling sorry for me, because I’d woken up screaming. Maybe he was just trying to be a friend. Maybe that’s all he was ever trying to be. It was a long time ago. Maybe I’d read it all wrong.

“I love him Lizzie,” Catherine said, eventually. “I’ve never loved anyone else. It’s always been him, for me. Just like it was always Larsen for you.”

“Yeah, well, look how that ended up,” I reminded her.

“Oh Lizzie, that was your doing. It was always you he wanted, you know that. But he knew he was going to lose you and he feathered his nest. Blokes like Larsen, they’ll make sure they’re never on their own for long. But you … you’ve gone to the opposite extreme. Because you’re looking for perfection. And you’re not going to find it, Lizzie. It doesn’t exist. We’re humans; we’re all flawed. Maybe you just need to accept that and get on with letting someone love you too.”

I sighed. “I haven’t gone through all the pain of breaking up with Larsen just to go out and make the same mistakes all over again,” I told her. “I want to get it right this time.”

“I know. And I understand that. But if you don’t get your nose out of the map soon and start driving, you’re never going to know if you’re getting it right or not.”

I smiled. “I will. When I find what I’m looking for.”

“Plenty of fish in the sea,” she added, smiling too.

“Yes. But most of them are either mackerel or herring.”

Catherine looked confused.

“D.H. Lawrence,” I admitted. “If you’re not a mackerel or a herring then there are not that many good fish in the sea. Look… I’m not looking for perfection, but I just know what I want. I need someone who is going to love me in the right way, someone who knows who he is and is happy with that, and doesn’t need a mirror-image to know he exists. Someone who can respect who I am, and is happy with that too; a man who would do anything for me, but who wouldn’t suffocate me either; someone who would wait for me if I needed to go away, and not have to replace me with someone else because he couldn’t be alone; he’d laugh when I broke things, and hold me when I cried, and he would always be there if I needed him.”

“Honey,” said Catherine. “You want your dad.”

It was my turn to cry. Catherine put her arms round me and held me tight.

A few minutes later there was a knock at the door.

“Okay,” I conceded. I wiped my eyes and stood up. “I give in. Maybe you’re right about Martin. What do I know? But I swear, Catherine, if he lays a finger on you again…”

“I know. Absolutely. Believe me, he’ll be gone.”

I opened the front door. Zara was on the doorstep, wearing a new cashmere coat, a pair of Jimmy Choos and a new tea-cosy hat.

“Blimey Zara, where did you get all the gear?”

“Harvey Nicks,” said Zara, beaming. She lifted up one foot and twirled her gold strappy ankle. “You like?”

“Wow. Yes. I do. But how much did they set you back?”

Zara sniggered into her hand and whispered in my ear.

“What! £400? Where did you get that kind of money?”

“Oh, relax,” said Zara. “I put it on my card.”

“And the coat?”

“Come on, Lizzie, a girl’s got to look good,” said Zara. “James absolutely loves them.”

“I bet he does,” I said. “You look stunning. But I thought we were going for a walk?”

“I know,” said Zara. “But I didn’t go home last night. I was with James.”

“Do you want to borrow some trainers?”

“Hey,” said Zara. “Shall we go shopping instead? I saw this really gorgeous Prada handbag in Beauty and Accessories, that would really go with my new dress.” She opened her coat. She was wearing a beautiful red and black mini dress. “Let’s go back there,” she chattered excitedly. “They’ve got jewellery to die for. And we can get our makeup done!”

I eyed Zara suspiciously. “How can you afford a Prada handbag? You don’t earn that sort of money. I mean, how much did that dress cost?”

“Oh come on, Lizzie, stop being such a killjoy,” laughed Zara. “You only live once.”

“That’s right,” said Catherine from behind me.

“The Universe will provide,” said Zara. “Isn’t that right, Catherine?”

“It’s true,” I heard Catherine say again from behind me.

“Oh, all right, then,” I agreed, feeling like a bit of a spoilsport. “I guess we could.”

We took the tube to Knightsbridge. I would normally have enjoyed the walk, across Hyde Park, but it was clear that Zara wasn’t going to be able to do that in six inch heels and that she wasn’t going to swap them for my old trainers.

The tube was packed and we had to stand. Zara chattered incessantly about James, as the train bumped and twisted, and threw us around. I clung onto the hand strap rail and tried to keep up.

“It’s amazing,” said Zara, who looked like she was suspended from the ceiling. “The sex is just amazing!”

A woman in the seat opposite looked up abruptly from her magazine.

“You seem really happy,” I observed.

“Oh, God, Lizzie, he just does it for me,” she whispered loudly, whilst dangling seductively from the handrail. “I feel like, well… invincible!”

“You’re not…”

“What?”

“Taking drugs or anything?”

“What?” Zara threw back her head and started laughing. “Of course not!”

“It’s just…you seem different. Really… well, confident.” I sounded jealous. I didn’t want to be.

“I know,” said Zara. “I feel like I can do anything. And it’s all because of James. I’ve got so much energy. We barely slept last night.”

“Shhh,” I laughed, looking around the busy carriage. “Enough about the sex, Zara. So, come on then, tell me about him. Where does he live?”

“Kilburn. In a house.”

“In a house,” I repeated. “What kind of house? Who does he live with?”

“I don’t know. It’s just sort of an address he uses. There are several people there. He’s from Ireland.”

“Well, that’s the bit I knew already,” I said. “So what else have you found out about him? Which part of Ireland is he from?”

“The North,” said Zara. “Belfast, I think.”

“And what’s he doing here?” I asked.

“He’s learning to fly, he’s going to be a pilot. How sexy is that?”

“I thought he said he was a builder?”

“He is,” said Zara. “As well.”

“So where’s he studying?”

“Oh. Yeah. The London School of…something. I forget.”

“Well, where’s he working?”

“On a building site. He’s building a house. He’s very good with his hands, you know.” Zara grinned and lifted her eyebrows.

“It all seems a bit sketchy,” I said. “What do you actually talk about?”

“Not much,” giggled Zara. “He’s a man of action rather than words.”

We came out of the tube station and waited to cross the road. On the corner, a black man selling flags wolf-whistled as we passed.

“Get lost,” I hissed.

“Hello, darling,” said Zara at the same time.

“Zara!” I grabbed her arm. “What are you doing?”

Zara was still smiling back at the man, who was calling after her, trying to say something to her. I dragged her away.

“Don’t encourage him,” I admonished her.

“He liked me,” she pouted. “And he was sexy.”

“Zara, don’t take it personally; you’re probably the hundredth woman he’s whistled at today.”

I felt a bit mean, trying to bring her down like that. But Zara merely smiled a Mona Lisa type smile, tossed her head and her cashmere coat, and swaggered off down Knightsbridge, wiggling her hips as she went, looking for all the world just like a movie star.

Later, back at the flat, we ate dinner and sat watching the news on TV. Martin was there, on the sofa with Catherine. Zara was curled up in the armchair. She was much quieter now and seemed withdrawn. I guessed she was tired now after her night of passion.

“Look at that,” said Catherine. “Isn’t it awful?”

A bomb had exploded in Warrington, Cheshire, killing a 3-year-old boy and injuring fifty people.

“That’s got to be a revenge attack,” said Martin

“Revenge? For what?” said Catherine.

“That’s the second IRA bomb attack in Warrington,” said Martin. “They bombed a gasworks there last month, don’t your remember?”

“Why are they taking revenge?”

“Because of the arrests,” I said. “The police arrested three people. IRA.”

“God, that’s awful,” said Catherine, again. “Right in the middle of a busy shopping centre. Poor little boy. Poor parents.”

“It’s so sad,” I agreed.

“I thought there were peace talks,” said Catherine. “I thought this was all going to stop?”

“It’s not going to happen unless there’s a ceasefire,” said Martin. “This isn’t going to help.”

“Did they ever catch the people who bombed the Baltic Exchange?”

“No. This is the IRA you’re talking about.”

“What do you mean?” asked Zara, suddenly entering the conversation.

“Well, they’re a paramilitary organisation. They’re highly organised. You’ve got Jerry Adams and Martin McGuinness and people like that, the political wing, legitimising it, doing all the talking, the public face. But the men behind the scenes, well… you’d never meet them. You’d never know if you were talking to one. Even here in London.”

“It could even be James, Zara,” I joked. “He might be IRA.”

“What? Why?”

“Well, think about it,” I said. “You don’t know anything about him, other than that he’s James and he’s from Kilburn...”

“James of Kilburn,” interrupted Martin. “Hmmm. It’s definitely a smokescreen.”

“…and that he is taking flying lessons.”

“There you are,” said Martin. “Trainee suicide bomber.”

“The IRA don’t have suicide bombers, do they?” asked Catherine.

“So, why do you think he’s a terrorist?” Zara persisted.

I studied her face. She looked alarmed. “We don’t, Zara. We were just teasing.”

Zara was silent.

“Ah, but think about it,” said Martin, “He wouldn’t tell you his surname. And we’ve never met him.”

“Lizzie and Catherine have.”

“Yeah, we did. Once,” said Catherine.

“Is he Catholic or Proddy?” Martin asked.

“I don’t know.” Zara looked really worried. Her confidence of earlier that day had evaporated and the anxious frown and shadowy eyes had returned.

“Does he talk like this?” said Martin in an impressive Belfast drawl. “Or like this?” he said in a softer, Southern accent.

“The first one.”

“There you are then.”

“What?” said Zara. “What do you mean? How do you know?”

“You can’t tell if someone is IRA by their accent,” I said. “He’s just teasing. Shh, Martin,” I said. “She’s getting really worried.”

Martin laughed, then checked himself, gave Zara a strange look and sank back into his seat.

In late April, we were all invited over to Zara’s for dinner. It was a warm evening, unusually so for the time of year. Somebody had been working on Zara's front garden. It smelled pleasantly of warm earth and cut grass. The habitually tangled mass of overgrown privet bushes had been chopped back to reveal a square patch of lawn, and a pile of dead weeds lay under the fence.

Shelley opened the front door and let us in on her way out to work. “Night shift,” she said, wrinkling up her nose.

“Oh well,” I said. “At least mostly everyone will be sleeping.”

“Or dying,” she said, opening the gate.

Tim was in the kitchen, seated at the old wooden table. He was chopping onions. He looked up as we came in, put down his knife and disappeared wordlessly into the old walk-in pantry behind the antique gas stove. He re-emerged a moment later with three chipped wine glasses, which he placed on the table in front of us.

“Where's Zara?” I asked.

“Up there,” he said. “Working. As usual.”

“Oh,” I said. “Well, I’ll just go and get her.”

“Bet she doesn’t come down,” said Tim.

I ran up the stairs and poked my head round Zara's door. She was sitting at her desk, scribbling away furiously, a book open on her knee.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Oh, hi. I’m just trying to get this finished.”

“Tim's cooking dinner,” I pointed out. “Catherine and Martin are here.”

“I know, I know, I know ...” said Zara irritably, flapping her hands in the air. She dropped her biro on the floor.

“Come on Zara. You have to eat.”

“Okay.” She dropped to the floor and began feeling around for her pen.

“Have you seen James?” I asked, hoping that her favourite topic of conversation might entice her downstairs to dinner.

“Why, has he phoned?” asked Zara, from under the table.

“No,” I said. “I don’t think so.”

“Oh,” said Zara, rummaging around on her hands and knees. “Where did the bloody thing go?”

“Leave it,” I said. “You can find it later. “

“Look, I'm not even that hungry,” said Zara. “Why don't you lot go ahead and start without me?”

“You invited us over,” I reminded her.

“It was Tim's idea -” Zara began, then stopped short and sat up, hitting her head on the table.

“Suit yourself,” I said, and shut the door.

Back downstairs, Tim was stirring a saucepan, which was heating on the stove. Catherine and Martin were in the garden, sitting on a bench and drinking wine. I stood by the open back door to the garden and lit a cigarette.

“You want to pack that in, Lizzie,” called Martin.

“Yeah, yeah. I know.”

Tim came and stood beside me in the doorway. He looked out at the garden and sighed.

“What’s up, Tim?” I asked.

“Clare's dumped me,” he said. “She's met someone else. She’s moved out.”

“Oh Tim, I'm sorry.” I stubbed out my cigarette and put my arms up round his shoulders and pulled him against me. He put his arms back round me and held me tight, his chin resting on the top of my head. His t-shirt smelled of patchouli oil.

“Breaking up is...” I searched for something comforting to say which didn't sound like a cliché.

“It's like that feeling that you get in the pit of your stomach when you're about to jump out of an aeroplane,” Tim said into my hair. I nodded, stood on tiptoes and kissed his cheek.

Martin looked up from the bench where he was sitting. I could see him watching me and Tim hugging for a moment and then, as he caught my eye, he smiled and got up.

“This looks cosy,” he said, walking towards us.

“Can I play?” asked Zara, who was standing in the kitchen looking upset. “I'm sorry,” she added, to me.

“Group hug,” I announced, and stretched out my arm to her. Martin joined in, putting his arms round me and Zara and squeezing us tight. I looked over at Catherine who was still sitting on the bench. “Come on Catherine,” I called, feeling Martin’s arm around me and worrying that she might feel left out. “Group hug.”

“It’s okay,” she smiled.

We ate Spaghetti Napolitana with bread, parmesan cheese and salad on blankets in the back garden. This one had not been tended, and was home to all the neighbours' cats as well as various different species of wildlife which came in through the hedge backing onto the park behind.

“I feel as if I'm in the countryside,” I said, looking around at the patchy grass and brambles and at the charred logs that lay in a dirt hollow under the trees where someone had recently had a bonfire.

“We should do something too,” said Zara. “Shelley did the front.”

Tim topped up our wine glasses. “Only because she's got a new boyfriend she wants to impress.”

“Oh,” I said. “What's he like?”

“He's a banker,” said Tim.

Zara looked up. “I thought he was a sales rep?”

“I wish I could just stay home tomorrow and weed the garden,” Tim sighed.

I rolled over onto my stomach. “I thought you enjoyed your job?”

“Oh yeah. Another day of cancelled ops and running around, getting nowhere.” He shrugged. “They've closed half the wards - 200 beds have gone. All so we can balance our books next year.” He picked up the wine bottle and shook it. ''We've got two new managers instead, paid fifty grand a year each to sit in an office and work out ways to cut costs. Isn’t that right Zara?”

Zara looked confused. “What did you say?” she asked.

Tim pulled his tobacco pouch out of his pocket and began rolling a cigarette. “Britain’s oldest hospital,” he continued. “Founded in the eleven hundreds, it was, by an Augustinian monk. It escaped destruction by the fire of London and the bombing in the second world war, and now here we are in the nineteen nineties and they're taking it to bits. One thousand years of history ...” He clicked his fingers. “Up for sale.”

No-one spoke. Zara looked depressed, even in the darkness.

“It should be protected,” said Catherine. “Like a listed building, part of our national heritage. Under customs law or something. There must be something you can do.”

“It’s called rationalisation,” said Martin. “The existing beds need to be used more efficiently. That’s the idea.”

“How can you use a bed more efficiently?” asked Catherine.

“Put two people in it?” I suggested.

Martin looked at me and laughed.

“It’s all about money,” said Tim. “They don’t care about people, just money.”

“It’s got to come from somewhere,” Martin said.

“There’s plenty of other places it could come from,” said Tim. “But that might involve taking a bit of money away from the fat cats.”

“It’s their money,” said Martin.

“No it’s not. It’s ours.”

“I mean “the fat cats”, as you call them. They’ve made their money.”

“Yeah, by paying peanuts. Off the backs of people like me and Zara.”

“It's getting dark,” I said, sensing an argument brewing. Martin was one of those people that would argue that black was white. I’d heard him saying just the opposite a week earlier. I sensed he was trying to antagonise Tim.

“Do you want to go inside?” asked Tim.

I shook my head. “Just point me to my wine glass.” I lay back on the blanket and squinted up at the night sky. “I can only see three stars.”

“No, there's more,” said Tim, lying down beside me. “You just have to let your eyes focus.”

“I wonder,” I said, “If they have some sort of test for astronauts, you know, like the number plate test. Okay, Mr Armstrong, how many stars can you see?”

“A lot,” said Zara, quietly.

I gave her a sideways glance. “Yeah. You pass. Get in your rocket Miss Lewis.” Zara wasn’t smiling.

“I wonder what they look like up close?” asked Catherine.

“Big,” said Martin, looking down at me and Tim, lying on the rug. I felt self-conscious, all of a sudden, lying there with my head so close to Tim’s. I sat up again, slowly, and shifted slightly away.

Catherine said, “It’s comforting to know they’re always there, even if you can’t see them. Puts things in perspective.”

“Souls,” said Zara. “Of dead people.”

We waited a moment, expecting some kind of amplification.

“Well the scientific view is that they’re big exploding balls of gas,” said Tim. “But that’s a nice idea.”

Zara sat up abruptly and knocked over her glass of wine. I realised with alarm that she was crying.

“When I try to look into the future,” she blurted out, “I can't see anything there!”

Nobody wanted to drive home so we all stayed the night. Catherine and Martin went to sleep in Clare’s old room and I crawled into bed beside Zara, but I couldn’t sleep. After tossing and turning for a while I entered into a strange half-dream about an Augustinian monk in his hooded cloak, wandering around, in and out of the old brick walls of the hospital and the courtyard and by the fountain in the middle, then up and down the empty and hollow wards. Shelley appeared briefly with a lamp, wearing an old Victorian nurse’s uniform and said, “They're all dying,” but then the Augustinian monk was back in the courtyard and nothing much else really happened. I began to get bored of the same scene with the walls and the fountain and the courtyard playing over and over, and all the time the Augustinian monk kept repeating “Half the wards, two hundred beds,” until I realized that it was still just my brain ticking away and that I wasn't really asleep at all. I opened my eyes and stared dully into the darkness. Zara lay silently beside me in the same position she'd fallen asleep, curled up on her side with her back to me. I always found it remarkable how little she moved, and how deeply but noiselessly she slept.

After an hour or so of lying in the darkness, I got up and went downstairs for a drink of water. When I passed Tim's bedroom I saw that the door was open and I peeped inside. He was lying facing me, his tousled dark hair curling over his forehead. The covers were pushed away from his lean torso and his arms were wrapped protectively around a pillow. As I stood watching him he shifted slightly on the bed and opened his eyes.

“Lizzie?” he said. “What are you doing?”

“I couldn't sleep,” I whispered.

He blinked sleepily and glanced at the clock. He reached out an arm. “Come here.”

I went into the room and sat down on the edge of the bed. Tim put his arm round me and pulled me down beside him. He stroked my hair. “Stay with me,” he said, putting his arm round me again and then he fell straight back to sleep.

I must have drifted off because when I woke it was light and I'd just heard the door slam. I looked at the clock. It was eight o'clock. Then I noticed that the door to the bedroom was open and Martin was standing there looking at me and Tim.

“Sorry,” he said. “Wrong door. I wanted the bathroom.”

“Next door,” I pointed. He paused for a moment, looking at us both, and then he disappeared.

Tim was still sleeping deeply; I could feel his breath against my neck. I lifted his arm which was still wrapped round me and slid out from underneath him.

Shelley was in the kitchen making tea. She looked exhausted.

“Do you want a cup?” she offered.

“Go on then.” I sat down. “I'll have to go straight to work from here.”

Shelley sat down beside me. “God, I need my bed,” she said. “A quick soak in the bath. And then I’m going to sleep for England.”

“Maybe you’d better wake Zara on your way up,” I suggested. “Hasn't she got college today?”

“I doubt she's going in,” said Shelley. “She hasn't been in for about three weeks now.”

I looked up at her. “She didn't tell me that.”

“She's trying to catch up with her coursework,” said Shelley. “She's got her first exams in two weeks time and she's getting stressed out.”

“I didn’t realise,” I said.

“I found her crying the other morning when I came home. Tim was on nights and I was at Gavin's.”

“Gavin?” I echoed. “Is that his name?”

She nodded.

“Really, Shelley,” I said. “A banker called Gavin?”

“He's not a banker,” she said, confused. “He's a sales rep.”

“Morning,” said Martin, appearing in the doorway.

“Oh. Morning.” Shelley got up to leave. “Need sleep,” she added.

“But Shelley...” I tailed off, as Martin sat down next to me. “Hi,” I said to Martin.

Shelley stopped as she got to the door. “I’ll talk to you later,” she said.

“Okay.”

“So,” said Martin. “How are you this morning?”

“Yeah, good. Tea?” I got up and fetched him a cup from the sink and added milk.

“Thanks.” Martin took the cup from me and spooned sugar into it from a cracked jar next to the teapot. Slivers of sunshine glanced in through the window onto the table in front of us, though the kitchen was largely dark and the air slightly damp.

“So, what’s going on, then? With you and him?” Martin nodded up at the ceiling.

“Tim? Oh, nothing. Really. We’re just friends.”

“That’s not what it looked like. You were in bed with him.”

“It’s not like that. I couldn’t sleep. It was just a… a cuddle.”

Martin smiled and stirred his tea. “Whatever you say.”

“It’s true,” I protested, then stopped. I couldn’t work out if Martin was just teasing me, or whether he actually minded, about me and Tim. But why would he?

“He likes you,” commented Martin. “That’s bloody obvious.”

I looked up, surprised at his tone. “Well, I like him too. But it’s not like that.”

“So what is it like then?”

I paused. “Rationalisation,” I smiled. “Efficient use of beds.”

“You don’t want to lead him on.” Martin wasn’t smiling now.

“I’m not,” I protested. “He knows how things stand.”

“He’s a bloke, Lizzie,” Martin said. “Blokes have needs.”

“Well so do women,” I said, crossly. “You’re not the only ones. But me and Tim are just fine with how things are.”

“I doubt that very much.”

“Look, Martin,” I said. “I’m sorry, but I can’t see how this is any of your business.”

Martin looked down at his cup in silence.

“More tea?” I suggested, after a minute, trying to lighten the tone.

“Go on then.”

I poured him a second cup. “So. Catherine still asleep?” I asked.

“Yeah. She’s always asleep.” Martin said. “I was thinking of going for a jog. Want to come?”

I shook my head. “I've got work. I’ve got a meeting. I have to go soon.”

“Okay,” he said. “It doesn't matter.”

I picked up my tea and pulled my cigarettes out of my handbag. I stood up and opened the back door. The air outside was cool, in contrast to the night before. The neighbour’s cat shot into the hedgerow.

“You really want to pack that in.” Martin looked up. “Seriously. You’re an athlete. It doesn’t make sense.”

“I’m hardly an athlete,” I said. “I like swimming that’s all.”

“Well, imagine. Imagine how much faster you could swim if you did.”

I shrugged, flicked my lighter and lit my cigarette. “Maybe. You’re right, I know. I will. Soon. When I’m ready.”

“So. No time like the present.” He smiled. “Tell you what. I’ll give you….erm. Five hundred quid. If you give up.”

I laughed. “Five hundred quid? You’re kidding, right?”

Martin smiled. “No. I’m serious. You give up and keep it up for six months, I’ll give you five hundred quid.”

I blew out a cloud of smoke. “But why? Why would you want to do that?”

Martin shrugged. “Why not? It’s only money. It’s an incentive, isn’t it?”

I nodded. “You could say that. It’s certainly a lot of money.”

“So? Are you up for it?”

I stubbed my cigarette out on the wall and dropped the butt into the dustbin outside. “I don’t know. I don’t believe you’re serious. And anyway, what would Catherine say? You two could go on a nice holiday for that.”

Martin shrugged. “You can’t do it. You haven’t got the willpower.”

“Yes I have,” I objected. I thought about it for a moment. We looked each other in the eye and neither of us gave in until we both started laughing. “Alright,” I said, finally. “Game on.”

“You’re serious?”

“Yeah. That was my last cigarette.”

“Okay,” said Martin. “Put it there.” He held out his hand and I gave him a high five. He grabbed my hand and held it for a moment. “No cheating?”

“I’m not going to cheat,” I said. I tried to pull my hand away but Martin held onto it tightly and said again, “You sure?”

“I’m sure.” I tried again to withdraw my hand from his grip. The door opened and Catherine’s head appeared. Her face fell slightly, unmistakeably, when she saw us. Martin let go of my hand.

“Oh, hi, Catherine,” I said. “We were just…”

“I thought you were coming back to bed?” said Catherine, to Martin. “I was waiting.”

“Just coming, sweetheart,” said Martin. “I was just making tea.”

Catherine came into the kitchen and sat down at the table. She was wearing Martin’s jumper and she pulled it down over her bare knees.

“Go on back up,” insisted Martin. “I’m coming now.”

“I’ll wait,” said Catherine. “I’m here now.”

“I’ve got to go,” I said. “I’m going to be late.”

Nobody spoke.

“So. I’ll see you later, then?” I looked at Catherine.

“Yeah.” Catherine nodded.

Martin leaned over and gave her a kiss.

“Bye then,” I said and closed the door behind me.

I ran upstairs to the bathroom. The door was open, the walls damp and steamy. A wet towel was draped over the banister. I ran up the next flight of stairs to Shelley’s room.

“Shelley?” I called softly outside her door, but there was no answer from her room. I poked my head round Zara’s door but she was fast asleep still, curled up in a tight little ball. I picked up my boots and jacket from the floor next to her bed where I’d left them and kissed her on the cheek. Then I closed the door behind me and hurried down the stairs.

I worried about Zara all the way from Clerkenwell to Euston. But when I got into work, there was a war going on in Bosnia and I had that to think about instead.