Ten Years On (8 page)

‘Hello!’ I call out when I enter through the back door. Todd greets me, dressed in a jacket and tie, glossy brown hair with flecks of silvery grey, kept out of his eyes by designer shades, and teeth as white as snow.

He leads me into the kitchen, the soles of his smart shoes clicking against the stone-tiled floor, opens the fridge, which is almost as large as their front door, and offers me a selection of beverages, from fruit juices to champagne. ‘Or I can make you a coffee.’ He gestures to the slick silver coffee machine on the breakfast counter. I opt for water.

‘Ice and lemon?’ He presses a button and ice cubes drop into the glass like magic.

I ask Todd how his recent business trip went. The truth is, I don’t really know what Todd does. Nor do Mum and Dad, but they say it’s too late to ask him now. We all know he turns companies around, shakes up their finances, but I can’t imagine the detail of his life. ‘It’s a mystery,’ Dad says wryly.

‘Great,’ Todd replies, and that’s the end of that conversation, the mystery remaining unsolved.

*

‘Uh-oh,’ Todd grins, when we hear running along the corridor that sounds like the beginning of an earthquake. ‘Here comes trouble! Now, Rebecca, we don’t allow them in the sitting room, and bedtime is in’ – he looks at his gold watch – ‘approximately twenty minutes.’

When Pippa kisses me goodbye I inhale a waft of honeysuckle perfume. She looks incredible, in a pale-pink evening dress. Pippa is impossibly pretty, with her china-blue eyes, plump cheeks, natural blonde hair and heart-shaped mouth, all features inherited from Mum. I’ve seen the family albums and she was an angelic-looking baby too, with blonde ringlets. I’m more like my father, with my sharper cheekbones and English-rose skin. ‘Have fun!’ I call out.

‘We won’t be late,’ she says over her shoulder. ‘They can play for another half-hour before bed …’

‘Twenty minutes,’ corrects Todd.

‘Oh, and I did promise they could eat the fruit kebabs they made at nursery today.’

‘OK!’

‘Any trouble, call me.’

‘We won’t have any trouble, will we?’ I say, expecting to turn round to two innocent-looking boys modelling Superman and Spiderman dressing gowns, feet encased
in fluffy slippers. They were behind me a minute ago, but …

Oscar has plonked himself in his racing car with a Union Jack flag attached to the aerial. He pedals furiously round the kitchen table, screaming and laughing and tooting the horn. Plump Theo is waddling behind, trying to catch him up.

‘Hi, boys, why don’t we eat those fruit … er …
kebabs
?’ I suggest, having to speak loudly over the noise. Completely ignored, I open the fridge to see if I can find them.

There they are, on a plate on the bottom shelf. Strawberries, pineapple and … ugh … cherry tomatoes skewered on to sticks.

I drop one of the kebabs on the floor when I hear his voice say, ‘Oh, yum-yum! Save one for me.’ Slowly I pick it up, brush it off, put it back on the plate, still confused.

‘That’s right. The boys won’t notice,’ the voice continues. ‘A bit of dirt never did anyone any harm, hey.’

‘Olly?’ I say. ‘Is this really you?’

‘Did you ask Joe why he stopped calling me?’

‘I didn’t. I …’

But then I hear screeching. I turn round to see that
Oscar has now abandoned the car and is bouncing round the kitchen table on a bright-blue rubber cow, Theo wailing that it’s his turn, it’s
his
Happy Hopper.

‘Watch out, Becca! Duck!’ says the voice.

A toy car is flying in my direction, a distressed Theo about to burst into tears. ‘Now that’s enough!’ They barely look up at me, and it is then that I realize how little I know these boys. My nephews. When Olly and I were first married, we rarely visited Mum and Dad at weekends, nor Pippa and the boys, partly because we were having too much fun, mainly because I don’t think Olly felt completely at ease. ‘I’m sure your Mum wishes you’d married a reliable solicitor like your father, or another Todd,’ Olly would say. I told him not to be silly, but deep down I sensed it too. I’d make up all kinds of excuses as to why we couldn’t visit them at weekends, one of the main ones being that Olly needed the time to write. I think Mum thought Olly’s head was in the clouds half the time, that his writing would always be just a hobby, and her disapproving tone made me feel protective of my husband. I look at the boys now. I don’t know them at all. There is a price to pay for distancing yourself from the family.

*

‘Now, it’s nearly bedtime, so let’s eat these and then why don’t I read you a story?’ I suggest, hardly recognizing my hearty-hearty sing-along voice as I kneel down to hand both boys their kebabs. ‘These look scrummy!’

Theo shoves the stick my way, offering me a bite, a squished strawberry precariously close to my lips, which I refuse a little too quickly, before saying, ‘No, no, they’re all for you! So, you made these at nursery? Aren’t you clever!’

‘I’ve made kuss kuss too,’ says Theo, chomping into a strawberry, half of it falling on to the floor.

‘Couscous. How delicious,’ I titter merrily, thrilled by how the evening is progressing. With Pippa and Todd’s genes, I decide they are handsome boys. Wide foreheads like Todd, saucer-shaped blue eyes and cherubic curls. Oscar is slighter in build and has a reddish tint in his hair, a little like mine. Theo is rounder-faced with a dimple like mine, and he’s pure blond, like Pippa.

‘What would you like me to read to you?’ I ask.

Oscar stares at his kebab, thinking, a wicked glint in his eye … Next thing I know, he’s flicked it towards the kitchen window,
splat
, tomato seeds dribbling down the glass.

‘Hey!’ I protest, grabbing a J Cloth. ‘What did you do that for? That’s naughty!’

SPLAT
! A strawberry now hits the glass, followed by hoots of laughter coming from Theo, who has copied him. ‘No! Stop it!’

Roars of laughter! They couldn’t care less!

The telephone rings, a flash machine with so many buttons that I daren’t touch it. It’s Todd’s office, Todd’s mobile, Todd’s this and that.

‘They
bleep
each other in the house?’ There’s a smile in his voice.

Eventually I hear Pippa’s voice on the answer machine. ‘Hi, Becca, hope everything’s OK and the boys are behaving.’

Splat
.

‘Stop fussing,’ I hear Todd murmuring in the background as frantically I wipe the mess off the window.

‘Just to say, we left some Waitrose goodies for you in the fridge, so help yourself to whatever you want, see you later, and really hope those monkeys are being good.’

Another
splat
.

Theo and Oscar are in bed, teeth brushed. Earlier I read them a story about a blue kangaroo, we played games, both of them hiding under their duvets. ‘I think Oscar must have gone on holiday to Barbados,’ I’d said,
pretending to search for him. Theo found this touchingly hilarious.

I scan the shelf of DVDs in the sitting room. I can see why the boys aren’t allowed in here. It’s spotless: no toys, no clutter, a sanctuary for Todd and Pippa. The walls are covered with modern paintings (expensive but not my taste), the sofas are cream, there’s an antique coffee table in the middle of the room, and by my side an Italian glass lamp base with an art deco shade. Oh dear God alive, I am going to have an Oscar or a Theo in five and a half months. My life will change in every way. Olly and I had talked about having a family, but we’d wanted to be more financially secure. ‘We have all the time in the world,’ he had said.

‘All the time,’ I say emotionally, kneeling down to slot
Pretty Woman
into the DVD player.

‘Oh, come on, Becca. You’ve watched it about a hundred times,’ he says. ‘Go wild. Watch
Avatar
instead.’

I wake up with a start. Where’s my mobile? Who’s calling me at this time of night? It might be Pippa? I haven’t even checked on the twins … I hunt for my mobile; finally find it wedged between the sofa cushions.

‘Hello,’ I say, standing up and catching a look at myself
in the mirror. My face is lined and crumpled from sleep; my hair looks as if I have just put my finger in a plug socket.

‘Rebecca? It’s Joe.’

Joe. Oh God. Wake up. It’s Joe.

‘I feel terrible,’ he confides. ‘I didn’t know what to say earlier …’

‘Don’t worry. I understand. It was a shock.’

‘I wondered if we could meet? There are so many things I didn’t ask.’

I don’t say anything for a long time.

‘Rebecca? Are you still there?’

‘I’m here,’ I say, and I can sense his relief.

‘I’d like that. When?’

‘How about tomorrow?’

After the phone call, I open the boys’ bedroom door. They’re scrunched up into tiny balls, fast asleep under their superhero duvet covers. I kiss them goodnight. ‘Life gets complicated when you’re older, so make the most of it now, sweethearts,’ I whisper, perched on the end of Theo’s bed, gently stroking his hair. ‘Maybe don’t flick any more fruit kebabs against windows, and
always
be kind to your old aunt, but have lots of fun, laugh and be happy …’

‘Because you can never go back. God, how I wish I
could rewind, go back to that day,’ the voice continues inside my head. I stand up, abruptly. ‘I’m sorry, Becca, for being so careless. I’d taken one of my short cuts, it was normally a quiet road …’

I rush out of the room, closing the door behind me. I pace the corridor, thinking about Jim and his dog, Noodle.

‘Talk to me, Becca. You know it’s me. I’m here.’

I look into an empty space. ‘What do you mean you’re here? You’re not. You’re not!’

‘Not in that way, but—’

‘I’m having your child. This wasn’t how it was meant to be.’

‘You’ll be a great mother,’ he says quietly. ‘I have faith in you.’

‘Oh Olly. I miss you.’ I turn round and stop dead when I see them.

I don’t know how long Pippa and Todd have been standing there; I’m not sure how much they have heard me say. Todd looks at my sister with concern.

‘I’m hearing his voice,’ I confess. ‘And I’m scared. Really scared.’

9

Bristol University, Eleven Years Ago

After Joe moves into our house the buzzer rings every five minutes, medical students dressed in skimpy skirts and revealing tops file in to see our new housemate. When my friends visit, they look over my shoulders to see if he’s around, or pretend they need the bathroom for the fifth time in the hope that they will have a chance encounter with him on the landing.

Sylvie wants to sleep with Joe. She flicks her dark hair in front of him, leaves shirt buttons undone to expose sexy underwear. The house smells of Chanel perfume. I watch in fascination as she bends down seductively to reach for the butter in the fridge, lacy thong on display. Jamie appreciates it. Olly can’t help but notice. Joe appears immune. Maybe he’s gay? But deep
down I don’t believe that, so I advise her to use another tactic; ignore him. Yet Joe still isn’t interested. I only know this because Olly and Joe go out to the pub on Monday nights, after their rowing session. ‘What do you
talk
about?’ I ask, because Joe isn’t exactly chatty.

‘Oh, everything,’ Olly says. ‘He’s a top guy. By the way, I’ve tried to convince him Sylvie’s fun. I reckon she’d be wild in bed.’

‘Olly!’

He laughs, tells me Joe is shagging someone else anyway, she’s called Zoe and they’re in the same anatomy tutorial. Joe says it would get messy and complicated sleeping with a housemate.

‘Phew. So I’m safe.’ I smile.

It’s Sunday morning. Chicken and potatoes are roasting in the oven. Pudding next. ‘Five large eggs, tick. Caster sugar, tick,’ I continue, assembling everything on to the kitchen table. I’m cooking Sunday lunch for Olly, who’s still in bed. Stanley were playing in a gig last night; they were the last band on, and by the time they played everyone was too drunk to care, and then the nail in the coffin was when the sound system packed up. At one point a meathead guy threw a beer bottle at Olly, shouting, ‘Loser!’ Joe left my side and approached the
man saying, ‘Don’t be a dickhead all your life. Apologize, please.’

‘Apologize! Who the fuck are you? His dad?’

‘His friend, and you’re a fucking wanker.’

When he tried to punch Joe, he was so drunk that he staggered into a table instead. The entire pub clapped and cheered Joe on, especially the women.

I still think Olly needs some serious cheering up though, and the one thing he says he misses about home is his mother’s Sunday roasts.

‘Cornflour … tick.’ I jog on the spot, as if warming up for the next exercise. ‘Olly’s going to be blown away by my newfound culinary expertise,’ I say to myself. ‘White wine vinegar …’

‘Tick?’ Joe suggests, standing at the door. I turn to him. How long has he been watching me?

He enters the kitchen, asks me what I’m doing. He’s dressed in his rugby gear, a patch of dry mud encrusted on to his thigh.

‘Cooking.’

He raises an eyebrow. ‘You never cook.’

‘It’s for Olly. Thanks for sticking up for him last night.’

‘Olly would have done the same for me.’ Joe glances at the recipe book.

‘Raspberry meringue roulade. That’s ambitious.’

‘Easy.’

‘Peasy lemon squeezy.’

I look at him, surprised.

‘Will there be any left over for me?’ He opens the fridge and takes out a carton of orange juice.

‘If you finish off my assignment.’ I think of my books upstairs, unread. ‘And take a shower.’ I crack an egg into a bowl.

‘Funny. Hang on! What are you doing?’

‘Cracking eggs into a bowl.’

‘But you’ve got to separate them.’

‘Separate them? Why?’

He looks incredulous. ‘Haven’t you made meringue before?’

I grab the book. ‘It says here, beat the eggs …’

‘The egg
whites
.’ He walks over to the table, picks up the bowl and chucks my previous effort into the sink, before taking two clean bowls from one of the cupboards. ‘Look and learn, Rebecca Harte,’ he says, with that arrogant smile. I watch as he cracks the egg against the side of the bowl. ‘I’m separating the egg into two shells,’ he comments, ‘moving the yolk back and forth …’