Swimming Upstream

4

Larsen moved out the following day. I sat helplessly on the sofa with my crutches and watched as he hauled three boxes and a suitcase down the narrow stairs into the living room and out of the door to Dave’s van.

I hobbled to the doorstep and kissed him goodbye.

“I still love you,” he told me, with what sounded like a question mark at the end.

“I still love you too,” I told him back, the same question hanging silently in the air between us.

We locked eyes for a moment and both stood waiting in the doorway for the other to say that this was a mistake. Then Larsen grinned, ruffled my hair and leapt into Dave’s van. He reached out and shut the door as he had done so many times in the past. Only this time he wasn’t going down the M11 to London, to the Fulham Greyhound or the Mean Fiddler, or up North to Manchester, or round the M25 to Oxford. This time he was going just a few streets away to Brian’s house; but he was leaving our home. The familiar heavy metal slam of the van door echoed in my ears like the clunking of a prison cell door, only I was now locked out, instead of in, where I could have been - with him. Right now, at this moment, my newborn freedom felt hollow, cold and strange.

On Thursday it was Polling Day but all I could do was to lie on the sofa and stare at the telly. I watched old movies: “Calamity Jane” and “The Way we Were” and cried for Robert Redford and Barbara Streisand and for everything they had lost. I desperately needed to talk to someone but there was no-one I could call. Except… Catherine. Maybe? But she didn’t know me, or at least not me with Larsen, and she was getting married and I was breaking my heart and none of it was right, or ripe for discussion.

Doug rang at around tea-time, when he got home from work and asked if I wanted to come over; but, again, it didn’t feel right somehow, with him being Larsen’s friend first, before mine. Besides, I didn’t want to talk with Marion there. She had a way of looking like the cat that had got the cream when anyone else appeared to be having a bad time. Deep down I was wondering if Larsen would come back; pretend he’d forgotten something, say he wanted to talk. I waited up late into the night, while the election results rolled in, with one eye on the telly and the other on the door and eventually fell asleep on the sofa in the early hours of the morning. This must be the right thing, us breaking up, I reasoned with myself. All we ever did these days was argue. I wasn’t happy and it was clear that Larsen wasn’t happy. But I hadn’t expected it to be this sudden, this final, and this soon.

By Friday morning the Conservatives were back in power, despite a severe recession, despite losing 38 seats, and despite all forecasts to the contrary. The phones would be ringing off the hook in the newsroom and I needed a piece of the action. I couldn’t bear the empty silence of the house any longer and, finding that I was able to both smile and walk with a degree of dignity and just one crutch, I caught a taxi to the radio station.

It took a long time to get up the stairs. I pushed open the door and caught my breath, inhaling the rubbery scent of hot machinery, of newsprint and of freshly ground coffee, the smell that defined the newsroom. The printer that gave us the feeds from the General News Service was clunking and whirring noisily in the corner of the room. Simon Goodfellow, the lunchtime reporter, was sitting at my desk. He peered over his shoulder as I entered and stood up, slowly.

“Good lord, that looks painful,” he commented, but didn’t offer to help.

I sank down into my chair, exhausted. On my desk was a letter from Phillip marked “Private and Confidential”. I glanced briefly round the newsroom. Everyone was milling around, carrying out their daily routine except Simon, who was looking curiously at the letter in my hands. I stuffed it into my handbag and pushed it under my desk. I logged onto my computer, and started to type up the news feeds for the lunchtime bulletin, which Simon had left for me.

It was an extraordinary coup for the government, their fourth consecutive victory and one for which the Sun newspaper was taking full credit, following their provocative headline the previous day urging the last person to leave Britain to “turn out the lights” if Labour won the election. It was clever all right; it fed right into the paranoia of the national psyche. That headline was for anyone who worried about trade unions taking over the country, about immigrants stealing their jobs and their women, about reds under the bed. I quickly typed up the rest of the national bulletin and then began to search for a local story. There was nothing from the police today. I glanced again through the feeds that Simon had left me.

“And finally,” I typed. “A farmer in Whittlesford is lobbying parliament this week with a petition signed by four hundred Kent and Sussex farmers against the proposed Channel Tunnel link.” I stopped writing and spun my chair round.

“Why?” I asked Simon, who was now sitting at the desk behind me, eating a pork pie.

“Why what?” He looked defensive.

“Why,” I asked impatiently, “does a farmer in Whittlesford give a flying one about the Chunnel link?”

Simon didn’t answer.

“It's going from London to Paris,” I elaborated. “There's no detour planned via Whittlesford.”

“So?” said Simon. “Maybe he's coming out in solidarity.” I knew that this was a dig at Larsen’s left-wing politics, with me as the object of torment. I hadn’t told anyone at work that we had split up. I certainly wasn’t going to tell Simon.

I folded my arms. “Am I going to have to delete this news item?” I asked him.

Simon grinned. “The farmers - united - will never be deleted,” he recited, punching the air with his fist. He chuckled and rocked back in his chair.

“It's not funny Simon. This is supposed to be a story. Either it is or it isn't.” I stood up and went over to the desk where all the information came in from the General News Service.

“Listen to the clip …” Simon began.

“I don't have time,” I said, edgily, sitting back down at the computer screen. “If it's going in I need it now, finished.” I was aware that my voice had risen by at least a couple of octaves.

I could hear Simon getting up and moving around behind me. He leaned over my shoulder and placed a pile of carts onto my desk in front of me, then left the newsroom.

I glanced at my watch, picked up the carts and my crutch and stepped into the studio.

When I came out Greg Chappell, the programme editor, was waiting for me. He smiled and sat down at the desk behind me.

“That was quick,” said Greg, when I came out again. “You had another two minutes to play with there. You'll be giving those lunchtime listeners indigestion.”

I slumped down into my chair. Greg put down his pencil.

“Look,” he said. “Don't let him get to you.”

“That's easy for you to say,” I muttered. “I'm fed up of doing Simon’s job for him and then feeling like an autocratic old nag for minding. It's like working with my brother.”

“I didn't know you had a brother,” said Greg, trying to be tactful, trying to change the subject.

I hesitated a moment. I wasn’t sure that I wanted to have a discussion about my family. “Yeah. Just the one. His name’s Pete.”

“And he wound you up, right?” Greg continued. “That's what being a brother is all about. It's in the job description.”

“Yes, well, it's not in Simon's, is it?” I said.

Greg looked at me sympathetically. “You need to get out of here. You need a new start somewhere else. You've outgrown this place.”

I felt a glimmer of hope inside me, something I hadn't felt in a while. “Do you really think so? I thought I was only just getting somewhere.”

Greg wheeled his chair over to mine. “Look, Lizzie. You've got loads of potential. You could easily get a job in town.”

“I already am in town.” I was confused.

“I'm talking about London,” he laughed. “One of the independents, or the BBC stations even. You're hardworking, you've got what it takes. Don't keep selling yourself short.”

I eyed him suspiciously. “You're leaving,” I said. “Aren't you?”

“Yes,” said Greg.

“When?”

“End of the month. It's an attachment, but...” he trailed off.

“So who's going to cover for you?” I asked.

“Well who do you think?” Greg smiled. “I thought Phil had told you. He said he had.”

“What?” I turned and grabbed my bag from under the desk and ripped open the letter. “I thought I’d got a warning…”

“But listen to me, Lizzie, you can do more. Don't let it be forever...”

“It's enough,” I grinned. “For now.”

I got up, flung my arms around him and kissed him on the cheek. “You've just made my week. Month. Year,” I said, hugging him.

“Good,” said Greg. “In that case I forgive you for you for not caring that I'm going.”

“Of course I care,” I protested. “I'll really miss you, you know I will. But this is great news for both of us.”

I swung round and logged back into the computer.

The following Friday, I picked up the phone and dialled Catherine’s number. She answered after a couple of rings.

“Lizzie!” she said. “I am so glad you rang! That’s so spooky. I was going to call you tonight.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I’ve been thinking about you all week, how nice it was to see you again.” Something in her voice didn’t sound quite right. “How are you? How’s the foot?”

“Much better, thanks. I had to have a few days off work. But I’m back now, and in fact I’ve just been promoted.”

“Congratulations!” Catherine sounded genuinely delighted. “Let’s go out,” she said. “Tonight. We’ll celebrate!”

“Oh, I’m not sure. My ankle’s still not great. I mean, it’s better than it was, but... I’ve broken up with Larsen,” I blurted out.

“What? Are you serious?”

“Yes. Sorry. I didn’t mean to just dump that on you.”

“You’re not dumping anything, Lizzie, we’re friends, remember?”

“Of course. Thanks.”

“I’m so sorry. I thought you and he were..? Well, the way you described him, he sounded great.”

“He is great,” I said.

“So why, then?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s me. How long have you got?” I laughed, ironically.

“Right. That settles it. We’re going out. Tonight. Celebration or commiseration, it’s your call.”

Your call. I remembered Larsen saying that to me, the night we met, when I was talking about leaving college. I wondered how much of anything that had happened in the last seven years really had been my call. And I realised with sudden clarity that this was no-one’s fault but my own.

“Come on,” Catherine persisted. “You can stay at mine, that way we can get a cab back together. We’ll have a great time, don’t worry.”

“Go on, then. Why not?” I was wondering what it was about Catherine’s voice that sounded different. She sounded kind of high. “So, are you okay, then?” I asked.

There was a pause. “What have you forgotten?” Catherine asked, and I realised she wasn’t talking to me. I could hear a voice in the background, getting louder, shouting. It was clearly Martin. “Well, of course I would have washed it. Calm down. Hang on, and I’ll help you look.” The phone went dead for a moment and then Catherine was back on the line. “Lizzie, sorry, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you back. No. I’ll see you at eight. The Free Press. You know it? Near Parker’s Piece. Okay?” And then she was gone.

Catherine was waiting outside the pub when my taxi pulled up. She helped me out onto the pavement and threw her arms around me and held me tight, and I realised that she was the first person who had touched me since Larsen left. I felt suddenly and pathetically grateful for her friendship, but realised that she was equally pleased to see me because she was holding me so tight, for so long, that I nearly lost my balance. When she stepped back I realised that she was trying very hard not to cry.

“Catherine? What is it?”

She waved her hand in the air. “Oh, nothing. Ignore me. I’m just being stupid. Let’s get a drink.”

The pub was warm and inviting. The familiar pub smells of hot chips and roasted peanuts mingled with cigarette smoke and the sour stench of ale. I sat down at a table while Catherine went up to the bar and ordered the drinks. A small fire flickered in the open grate beside me and I leaned forward briefly and warmed my face in its amber glow before shrugging off my coat and sinking back into the cushioned leather of my armchair. A group of students, deep in conversation at the table next to me, suddenly let out a loud roar of laughter. I glanced over at them and wished for one strange moment that I were back there with them, with a chance to do it all over again, the whole student thing, only properly this time, to integrate myself fully into that other world and with those people. Maybe that was where I had belonged after all; maybe the past seven years had been a mistake. Maybe fear and insecurity at leaving home to study - at starting a new life on my own - had caused me to go the entirely wrong way through the sliding doors of fate into the club on Mill Road and into Larsen’s life.

“So where’s Martin tonight?” I asked Catherine, when she returned. It didn’t take Einstein to work out that her low mood was something to do with him.

“He’s coaching. The team’s got a tournament in Manchester,” she said. “It starts early tomorrow, so they’ve got to go tonight.”

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Just a silly argument.”

“Does he mind you going out with me tonight?”

“Of course not. He’s fine about it. It’s nothing, honest. Anyway, I want to hear about you.”

I took a sip of my drink and thought back to Martin’s shouting in the background when Catherine was on the phone to me. He had sounded really angry. I also recalled the unpleasant way he had treated Sean, the junior staff member at the swimming pool. And then there was his flirting. But maybe it was all something and nothing, like she said. I didn’t know enough about their relationship to pass judgement, yet alone interfere.

“So, come on then,” she said. “What happened? With Larsen?”

“I don’t know where to start,” I said. “Except that everything I told you about him is the truth. He’s a lovely guy. He’s funny. And kind. And I was crazy about him, you know?”

“Was?”

“Am. Was. I don’t know.”

“Are you sure it’s over?”

“He’s moved out,” I said. “I haven’t heard from him since he left. It’s well over a week. Ten days to be precise. I haven’t gone this long without speaking to him since the day we met.”

“So is this not what you really want?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “It feels like a release at times, like I can breathe again. We were just so merged into each other. Or I was merged into him, more to the point. It’s like we were the same person. It was suffocating. Even our initials were the same: Larsen Tyler and Lizzie Taylor. He loved that, things like that, our sameness. He thought it was great, how close it made us. And that was what I wanted, too, in the beginning. I let it happen. It was so secure. And he had a ready made life, friends, everything was there, set up for me. All I had to do in return was love him, and believe me I did. He loved me back and it was everything I needed. And when he got up on stage… well, being his girlfriend, basking in his reflected glory… it was intoxicating. It was the headiest thing that ever happened to me.”

“So what changed?”

“I just don’t know. Me I suppose. Like I say, I felt stifled, suffocated. As if I just wasn’t being myself, as though I was living his life, not mine. But now … it’s lonely without him. It’s strange. I keep thinking he’s just gone away on tour and he’s going to come home any minute. Except that all of his stuff is gone. Except he just doesn’t - come home, that is.”

Catherine took my hand across the table and squeezed it. “It must feel awful. Even if breaking up with him was what you wanted. It must be really hard.”

“It is,” I said, looking up at her. “And there’s nobody I can talk to who understands. How can you know something’s not right but still miss someone so much?”

“I understand,” said Catherine. “It’s like being torn in two.”

“That’s it. That’s exactly what it is. There is the bit of me that is him and me, and the bit of me that is just me. And the bit of me that is just me wants this, this new path, this new start. But the rest of me… is missing that closeness. Missing him. So much.”

Catherine gave my hand another squeeze, and bit her lip, pausing for a moment before she asked, “So when did you first notice that the bit that was just you was not getting a look in?”

I looked into my empty glass and thought about that for a moment. “The truth?” I asked her.

Catherine nodded.

“Around seven years ago.”

“You mean..?”

“Yes. Right in the beginning. I switched degree courses. For him. My second year at college was meant to be my year abroad. I had picked Paris as my study placement. The city. Where better to learn French? I was so excited. It wasn’t that far away. I thought: it’s only a year. We can visit each other. He can come and stay. I can come home in the holidays. But when I told him, he said that it would be the end of us. He gave me an ultimatum. He said I was either in this relationship or I was out. So I dropped French and switched to Politics, and moved in with him instead.”

Catherine didn’t say anything for a minute. “I can understand that,” she said finally. Which was not what I had expected her to say, at all.

At closing time, Catherine decided that we should go to a nightclub.

“I really want to dance,” she said. “Do you mind?”

I wasn’t in much shape for dancing, but I didn’t want to go home just yet either and was still feeling so happy to be with her again that I would have gone for a wet weekend in Cleethorpes if she’d asked me.

“I’ll watch you,” I laughed.

We paid our entry fee and found a seat near the dance floor, where I sat sipping a gin and tonic while Catherine disappeared into the crowd and the dry ice. I watched the flashing purple and yellow lights and the spinning silver baubles that hung from the ceiling and soon spotted Catherine amongst the other dancers, all swaying and jerking to the rhythm of the night. Catherine danced without inhibition and looked happy, lost in the music, as she swung her hips from side to side, her arms in the air and her long dark hair swinging round her face as she moved. I smiled as more than one man watched her, then came towards her and began to gyrate around her, trying to catch her attention. She didn’t seem to notice, or simply turned her back and danced away. Eventually she got tired and came back and sat down beside me but the music was so loud that we soon gave up trying to talk to one another. We sat and stared at the lights and the dancers instead.

I started to wonder what Larsen was doing right now. He would be at a gig, probably; in fact he would be finished by now and packing up, drinking backstage with the other band members. And no doubt some girls, who would have found their way backstage too. Either that or he would be with the others, Brian, Jude and Doug - our crowd. Maybe they were all down the pub still, at one of the many lock-ins, playing cards, laughing, singing along to the Juke Box or an acoustic guitar. One thing was for certain, he wouldn’t be on his own.

A wave of insecurity washed over me and I realized that that was where I wanted to be too, right now - at a lock-in in the Jugglers Arms, with Larsen, not here with a bunch of strangers, with this deafening music thudding and vibrating through my body. But I couldn’t admit that, not even to Catherine. If this - going out to a nightclub with a friend that wasn’t Larsen’s friend - was the first on my list of new experiences, a step forward into my new life, I didn’t want to fail at the first hurdle. Besides it would come across as a slight on her company. More than that, I just couldn’t say it out loud that I had made a mistake in letting him go. Because that would make it true.

“I can't believe we're doing this,” I yelled, downing the remains of my third gin and tonic.

Catherine didn't answer. I looked round and realised she was asleep.

A young guy appeared next to me. He must have been all but twenty. He mouthed something at me and raised his eyebrows.

“What did you say?” I hoped he wasn't asking me to dance.

“Do you want to dance?” he leaned forward and shouted into my ear, nearly bursting my eardrum.

“I can't.” I looked up at him, apologetically. He seemed nice enough, in a gangly kind of way, but I suddenly felt panicky. I didn't want to lead him on.

“My name's Michael,” he added.

“I can't, Michael,” I said firmly. “I've got a bad ankle,” I added, nodding at my crutch, although my ankle was actually feeling much better.

“That's a bit of a lame excuse,” he shouted, in my ear. “Get it? Boom boom.”

I shot him a withering look. He shrugged, and started jigging around. “All right then,” he shouted. “What about your mate?”

We both looked at Catherine, whose head was tipped back over the top of the leather seat, her mouth slightly ajar.

“I don't think so,” I said.

He didn't appear to be leaving. “What’s your name?” he asked, crouching down beside me.

I told him.

“Busy Lizzie,” he said, and smiled as if that meant something.

The DJ announced the last dance and the music changed to a slow song. Catherine was making a snuffling noise and her hand was twitching in her lap.

“Come on,” said Michael grabbing me by the hand. “I'll hold you up, don't worry.”

I hobbled resignedly behind him onto the dance floor. He put his arms round my waist and pulled me to him. I reluctantly draped my hands over his shoulders. It felt too intimate, my breasts pushed up against his chest like that, when I barely knew him. I could feel his breath on my cheek and his hair tickling my forehead.

The song was Madonna’s “Crazy for You.” You couldn’t actually dance to it. So we just went round and round, like you do to slow songs at discos. It had always seemed a bit stupid and pointless to me, not actually going anywhere, especially with a load of strangers dotted around you doing exactly the same thing. It wasn't as if any skill or dexterity were required, either, like when you tangoed or waltzed. It was simulated sex, really, which is fine when you feel like simulating sex, but I didn't. Not there, not with him, in spite of all the gin.

When the song ended he tried to kiss me. I let him for a moment out of a combination of pity and curiosity, until he started trying to push his tongue into my mouth. It felt hard and dry, and unpleasantly alive, like a small furry animal. I pushed him gently away and limped back to Catherine, who was sitting up and rubbing her eyes. The lights were coming up and the bar staff were collecting glasses. Sinead O’Connor’s “Nothing Compares to You” was now blasting out of the speakers, and it was just about all I could bear.

“What time is it?” Catherine asked.

“Time to go home. Very much so, in fact.”

We joined a queue at the taxi rank and eventually got into a mini-cab. As we turned into Catherine's street and pulled up outside the house, she stiffened and peered nervously out of the window. Amidst the row of darkened terraced houses, one glowed with light from every window.

“It must be Martin,” she said, looking startled. “What’s he doing back home?”

I paid the driver and followed Catherine up the path. Just as she was putting her key in the lock the door swung open and in a flash she'd disappeared inside, the door slamming shut behind her. I stopped on the path, stunned, not quite sure what had happened. I turned and looked back at the deserted street behind me. The taxi was just turning round the corner out of sight.

There wasn't a sound from the house. I looked at my watch; it was a quarter to three and I had no idea where I was. I'd just decided to take my chances on hobbling back down the road when the front door opened and Catherine appeared looking flushed and apologetic.

“Sorry about that,” she whispered. “Come in.”

I stepped inside and caught sight of Martin, surveying us both, stony-faced, from the top of the stairs. I followed Catherine into the front room.

“Don't worry, he'll be all right in the morning,” she said in a strange voice as if talking to herself and, gathering up an armful of cushions that were scattered on the floor, she patted the sofa and disappeared out of the door. A few minutes later she reappeared with a pillow and a blanket, which she handed to me without a word before she left again, switching off the light and closing the door behind her.

Moonlight was streaming in through a gap in the curtains, casting a shaft of light across the carpet. I lay back on the sofa, pulling the blanket up to my chin. Through the silence and stillness of the room came the heavy sound of footsteps pacing up and down overhead and Martin’s voice, booming through the plasterwork in didactic tones. Every now and again I could hear the faint sound of Catherine, responding, wheedling, coaxing, and finally sobbing. I pulled the blanket over my head and stayed that way with the blood rushing in my ears long after the noise had stopped.

Slowly, I became aware of another presence in the room. Opening my eyes tentatively, I blinked in the darkness, seeing nothing but the shadows of the furniture. I lifted my hand slowly from under the blanket and reached for the table lamp beside me, found the switch and pushed. It clicked, but nothing happened. I lay rigid, my heart pounding in my chest. I wanted to get up, get out but I was too afraid to move. I screwed up my eyes tight and prayed. Sensing something at the foot of the sofa, I slowly opened them again. In an instant, the blanket was whipped away from me. I screamed. Then I felt my body rolling over as the sofa creaked and sank beside me.

“Shhh,” said Martin, putting his hand over my mouth.

“What… what are you doing?” I whispered, pulling his hand away.

“You screamed. You were having a bad dream. I came to see if you were all right.”

I blinked and moved my head. “What time is it?”

“Early still. Around six.” I realised he was right, that it was now morning. A shaft of early morning sunlight now beamed into the room through the gap in the curtains and specks of dust were dancing through the air. I saw that the blanket was still over me, after all. My body was stiff and aching.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“So what were you dreaming about?”

“Nothing. Like you say, just a bad dream.”

Martin reached out and stroked my hair back from off my forehead. “Poor thing.”

This didn’t feel right, but I didn’t know what to say.

“I’m okay, really,” I sat up slightly. I was relieved to remember that I was still fully dressed. “I’m sorry if I woke you.”

“You didn’t. I was up anyway. I was about to go for a jog.”

I glanced up at him and saw that he was wearing tracksuit bottoms and a sweat top. “Don’t let me keep you.”

“It’s okay.” He made no move to leave.

I shifted away from him slightly and tried to think of something to say, before he could touch me again. “Where do you go? Jogging I mean?”

“Just round the block. Up to the shops, round the park, back again.”

“Sounds good. I would like to say I’d join you, but… I don’t think I’m going to be jogging for a while. Or swimming, come to that.”

“That’s a shame.” Martin paused. “I used to compete, too, you know. Nationally. I was on the verge of turning professional, until I injured my back. That put paid to a lot of things.”

“Like?”

“My career for a start.”

“I’m sorry. That’s tough. What happened?”

“I had an accident. On my bike.”

“Your bike? You were on a bicycle?”

“Motorbike. I had a Kawasaki. A Five Hundred. I used to import and sell them, bikes. And cars, too. A real good crack, it was, got to drive them all over, delivering them to customers. I had a good little business going. Till I hit a tree. It was wet. I just skidded off the road.”

“God. How awful. Were you badly hurt?”

“You could say that.” A wry grin. “Both legs broken, and, worse, damage to my spinal cord. “Incomplete”. That means it wasn’t a total loss of function, thank God. But I didn’t know that at the time. I was in traction for weeks. It was bloody miserable. It felt as if my life was over, at the time. That was back in Eighty-Four.”

The year I’d met Larsen. There I was, all tied up with the business of falling in love, while Martin was in pain, lying on his back in a hospital bed. I felt a stab of pity for him.

I said, “You must think I’m a real baby, then. All I’ve got is a sprained ankle, and look at me, moaning about it.”

Martin smiled. “The trick is to keep it moving. And put pressure on it. Try standing on it. Stand on one leg.”

“What, now?”

Martin laughed. “I’m serious. As often as you can. You need to strengthen it. Physio’s what you need - and lots of it. I can help you if you like.”

“You’re a physiotherapist?”

“Well, no. Not exactly. But I’ve picked up a few techniques along the way. Believe me, I’ve come across more than a few serious injuries since I’ve been coaching.” He paused. “That doesn’t sound very good does it?”

I laughed. “I know what you mean.”

“Anyway, I got interested after the accident, in rehabilitation, I mean. After I got some movement back in my spine. I kept telling myself, making this bargain with God, you know, that if He would let me walk again I would do something positive…and then I did walk. And, well, every cloud, you know. I figured if I can’t train enough to compete myself, I can help other people.”

“That’s very…well, big-hearted of you.”

Martin shrugged. “It took me a while to get there. I kind of gave up for a while, after the accident. Got a bit down. You know. But I got there in the end. And my back’s much better now. Good enough for lifesaving, anyway. And I keep in good shape.”

“I can see that,” I said, then wished I hadn’t. “So,” I added quickly, “How long have you been working at the complex?”

“A couple of years.”

“Ever had to save anyone’s life?”

“Once or twice. There was one time when a very overweight woman came in eating a kebab.

“What?” I laughed. “You’re kidding.”

“Straight up.” Martin was smiling now. “I was just about to go over to her, tell her we didn’t allow food by the pool side. Next thing, she’s screwed up her wrapper, lowered herself into the shallow end, flopped onto her stomach and sunk straight down to the bottom.”

“Oh my God, what did you do?”

“Well, jumped in, of course, pulled her out. Resuscitated her.”

“You gave her the kiss of life?”

“Of course. Had to. That’s my job.”

“And she was okay?”

“Yeah, she was fine. I had onion breath, though, for the rest of my shift.”

I laughed. Martin looked down at me and smiled. He placed his hand on top of mine. “So. How are you feeling now?”

I glanced down at my ankle and, under the pretext of making myself more comfortable, slid my hand from under his and used it to shift my body weight. “Better. I’m fine. Really.”

“Good.” Martin leaned forwards and kissed me gently on the cheek. He let his lips pause there for a moment and I could feel his breath, warm against my face.

“Please,” I said, quickly, to stop him.

He looked into my eyes. His face was still very close to mine. “What?” he whispered.

I stumbled for words. “Catherine,” I said and added, “Don’t hurt her.”

I knew I’d said the wrong thing. Martin sat up and shook his head.

“It’s none of your business,” he said, quietly.

Then he left the room.

It was still early, and there was no sound from upstairs. I found some paper in my handbag and scribbled a note to Catherine. I left it on the kitchen table and slipped out of the front door. The street was empty apart from a few cats and a paperboy doing his rounds. I limped to the end of the road and stood on the corner, and looked in both directions. I could see a newsagent and a grocer’s shop at the bottom of the road that I recognised. I realised that I knew where I was, at the top of Cherry Hinton High Street and Fulbourn Road. I spotted a phone box on the corner and started towards it, pulling my purse out of my bag to check if I had change.

Suddenly, I heard a whistle, looked up and saw my father walking down the street towards me. I stopped in my tracks and stared at him but he didn't seem to notice me. He opened a gate further up the street and disappeared up the pathway. I continued to stand there, rooted to the pavement, holding my breath while time stood still. The gate opened and the postman came back out. It was the postman. It wasn’t my father. Of course it wasn’t my father. How could it be?

“Morning, love,” said the postman, cheerfully, as he passed.

“Morning,” I replied, in a whisper.

When I got home the house was cold. I switched the heating on but the boiler had gone out in the kitchen. After a couple of indifferent flicks at the pilot light, I gave up on it. I made myself a cup of tea and sat in the living room by the window with my jumper over my knees, watching a couple of pigeons pecking away hungrily at the cracks in the pavement outside. My stomach churned, demanding food, but I couldn't think of anything I wanted to eat. I couldn't think of anything at all, except that I wanted Larsen back. I couldn't remember what could have been so bad, bad enough for me to give him up. I thought of all our arguments and longed for even that. Anything had to be better than this. As Sinead O’Connor had so pertinently reminded me, nothing compared to him. It was that simple. He was Larsen. Nothing - no-one - compared to him.

I sat curled up in the chair until my toes and my nose were numb, then climbed wearily up the stairs and into the bedroom. I pulled the curtains to shut out the light, pulled off my jeans and crawled under the heavy feathery folds of the duvet.