Or – have a beer, a cigarette, think – was it possible that the announcement of a reward was a useful development? Might it not bring unreliable witnesses and charlatans into the mix, both of which would waste police time?
As I read the item a second time, searching each word for new meaning, my stomach heaved. It wasn’t the money – a sum that Wendy clearly expected me to improve on in my compensation of her – but a single word buried in the first paragraph:
‘Recovering’.
It sounded as if the driver of the Fiat was now conscious and improving. It sounded as if she was now in a fit state to be interviewed by the police.
I made no reply to Wendy. I wouldn’t have replied to her even if I hadn’t lost the use of my hands to uncontrollable shaking.
‘Fi’s Story’ > 01:21:40
So I’d say it was probably only a few days before the guy from La Mouette got in touch, inviting me to have a drink with him the next Friday. I suggested a bar in Balham, striking distance for both of us but a safe enough distance from home turf to avoid any neighbourhood gossips spreading the word. Not that Bram had worried on that score, brazenly picking someone up in the most popular drinking hole in Alder Rise, but I had different standards.
It was surprisingly easy to get back in the game. Toby was such effortlessly good company. I told him about my job in homewares and he talked about his work as a data analyst for a think tank commissioned by the Department of Transport.
‘It’s not a study of inveterate speeders, is it?’ I laughed. ‘If so, you might want to interview my ex-husband. He’s had three tickets in the last eighteen months.’
Toby grinned at me. ‘We’re interested in the exact opposite: why the average speed for a journey through central London has slowed so dramatically. You know it’s getting down towards eight miles an hour? Everyone agrees the congestion charge isn’t effective any more, so we’re working with a big engineering consultancy to put together a new strategy.’
‘It’s all the white vans, I suppose?’ I knew from my work that people expected same-or next-day delivery on even the cheapest, smallest items.
‘Partly.’ He described his team’s surveillance of freight vehicles and mini cabs, cycle lanes and construction projects, before apologizing for boring me. ‘I sometimes think talking about work should be against the law.’
I lifted my wine glass. ‘I’ll drink to that.’ It was true I wasn’t looking to share career angst. I wasn’t looking to share lives. This was a physical attraction, the interesting conversation a delightful bonus. ‘Just tell me one thing: I’m not under surveillance, am I?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Not the kind you mean, anyway.’
We slept together that night. My flat was closer than his and so that was the natural venue. Also, I’m not totally irresponsible, I wouldn’t go back to a complete stranger’s place.
‘I really like you, Fi,’ he said before he left. ‘We should do this again.’
‘Okay,’ I said. Obviously I’m simplifying it now, but it honestly was that uncomplicated. ‘I’ll phone you,’ I told him, because I was damned if I was going to revive the passive role of my twenties. I would drive this, if any driving were to be done, and I would decide whether or not there was. Which dated me right there, as Polly pointed out when we next talked on the phone.
‘?“Hard to get” doesn’t exist as a concept any more. Everyone is easy to get.’
‘What’s the protocol then?’ I asked.
‘The protocol is there is no protocol. You have to get your head around the fact that it’s not like when you and Bram were going out. Those were innocent times. People interacted differently.’
‘Right,’ I said, ‘because telecommunications didn’t exist then, only semaphore and messengers on horseback.’
‘They didn’t exist – at least not the kind that tells you anything useful. I wouldn’t tell Bram about your congestion expert, by the way. If he thinks you’re interested in someone new, he’ll start chasing you again.’
‘It’s too late for that.’ I cut the conversation short then. There was nothing to be gained from another character assassination of Bram. He was the father of my children and, as the cliché went, I would always respect him for that.
I would also need to monitor his fitness for the task. On my way home from the station an evening or two earlier, I’d seen him standing alone by the closed park gates, a wisp of blue smoke rising from a cigarette held by his side, and I’d felt genuinely quite disturbed. It wasn’t the smoking, it was the solitude, the way he was standing: helpless, shrinking, as if stranded by the encroaching tide.
Hearts have muscle memory like any other and, I admit, mine squeezed at the sight of him.
I’d phoned Alison. ‘Will you do me a favour? Call round ours this weekend, if you have time. Get Bram and the boys to go out with you or just get invited in for a cup of tea. See if everything’s okay with him – I don’t mean this woman you told me about, just generally. He seems a bit down. I need to know he’s in good spirits for the boys’ sakes, but I’m not sure I can judge any more.’
‘Leave it with me,’ Alison said.
#VictimFi
@natashaBwriter Her problem is she’s too passive-aggressive with the ex – getting the friend to ask for her!
@jesswhitehall68 @natashaBwriter Not sure I trust this Alison character either.
@richiechambers @jesswhitehall68 @natashaBwriter Can loverboy please do something about the new traffic system at Elephant & Castle #deathtrap
22
Bram, Word document
That Saturday afternoon, the doorbell rang and from the hallway I saw two tall darkly-dressed figures through the stained glass. This is it, I thought, and fear tore through me so violently I lost my balance as I put out my hand to open the door, landing heavily against the frame. I wasn’t ready to explain, to understand, to atone. I was a mess.
‘Bram, look at your face! Who were you expecting? A Mafia hitman?’ Alison and Roger cackled at my expression. ‘We wondered if you and the boys wanted to come to the dog show in the park?’
Incapacitated with relief, I was slow to respond. ‘Oh, right, is that today?’
‘It is. Rocky’s in the Handsomest Hound category. Come on, it’s not to be missed.’
Previously, the prospect of watching the Osbornes’ arthritic Lab stagger around the ring and retreat, unplaced, into the arms of a flock of howling kids would not have floated my boat, but on this occasion I accepted gratefully and told Leo and Harry to put their jackets and trainers on. Did the police even make calls at the weekend? Well, if they did, I’d be out, buying myself one more day, one more night, with my boys.
In the street, I had to turn my face away and consciously recalibrate before engaging with my companions. Next to their carefree state of being, their simple joy in dogs, I was a Martian.
‘Everything all right your end?’ Alison said as we walked, the kids scampering ahead. ‘You look a bit stressed.’
‘I’m fine. Just a bit worried about work,’ I said.
‘Well, don’t think about it. This is le weekend – and the prettiest bitches in Alder Rise await us.’
A throng worthy of Glastonbury awaited too. A well-known actor had moved to the area, Alison said, and was one of the judges. Rog had got talking to him at the vet’s and now she had hopes of socializing together. I couldn’t spot him through the crush, though everyone else I’d ever met was in view: the whole of Trinity Avenue, familiar faces from the boys’ school, the pub, even the station platform. It was unseasonally warm again, the air a sickening soup of dog breath and the deep-fat frying of a pop-up churros stall. In the ring, puppies were being paraded and as the audience surged forwards I hung back slightly, Harry’s hand in mine, as if I’d developed a phobia of crowds. I felt the pain of a need for a drink like appendicitis.
‘Hello, Bram,’ said a voice behind me.