It’s these unexpected things that hit her hardest. The quiet in the house, the not having anyone to talk to – she’d considered the impact that would have, thought she had dealt with it by bracing herself. But it’s the repetition of doing her own washing, cleaning her own crockery. Things still being in the place she left them. And the lack of purpose! Nobody calling out that extended ‘Mu-u-um?’ when they needed her.
Nobody needs her now.
At nine, wondering if it’s too early to go to bed, the phone rings again – it’s Kitty.
‘Hey, Mum,’ she says.
‘Are you out somewhere?’ In the background, Sarah can hear the noise of a bar – clinking, tinny music, layers of voices, laughter – and instantly the wave of mum-worry washes over her. She frowns at her own reaction. Kitty can take care of herself.
‘Sort of. I wanted to stay in but Oscar’s meeting a friend so I said I’d come along. Going home in a bit, though.’
Kitty sounds as if she has had a drink, or several. Perhaps it’s Sarah’s imagination.
‘How are you getting home?’
‘Don’t worry, Mum. Oscar’s going to walk me back.’
‘That’s good,’ she replies, simultaneously thinking is it?
‘I’m going to try and get the 16.56 on Friday.’
‘Is that the one that gets in at half-past six?’
It’s the briefest of conversations, and it leaves Sarah feeling worse. Before it can take hold, she distracts herself by letting the dogs out the back for a last wee.
When she shuts the door again, she hears a noise in the house; Tess barks at it and then Basil does too, and she follows them into the kitchen. Basil is scratching at the door and then she hears a knock.
Aiden is outside.
‘You can just come in,’ she says. ‘I told you, it’s not locked.’
There is something about the way he is looking at her. Inside her, something fires.
Aiden
You want to talk to her.
You want to tell her about Karine, about how suddenly your life feels different, because of her, but when she opens the door all the words evaporate.
‘You can just come in. It’s not locked.’
You are not listening. You do not wish to be reminded that you could just walk in at any moment. The thought of that is just too, too tempting.
You knock on the door and you will continue to do so because you have this feeling, this sixth sense that she might be there with that kid, that they are fucking or whatever, that you will see something now that you will never be able to unsee: her in the arms of a man who is not you. The sight of her happy with someone else. You saw that before, didn’t you, when she started seeing Jim? You had to run away to the other side of the world to try to get over it.
In the kitchen you hold yourself in check for as long as you can. To prove to yourself that you can resist. You have control.
But then the need to kiss her is too strong. You are expecting her to resist, to flinch, but she does neither. In fact to your surprise and relief she is responding, her hands at your back, pulling at your sweater, slipping up underneath to touch bare skin. She makes a sound, like a groan, and you pull away from her again to see her face, to check she is all right.
She smiles at you.
You push her back against the kitchen table and her fingers are fumbling at your belt buckle, struggling with it until you take over. She undoes her jeans and without any hesitation slips them down, off, spreading her knees so you can get between them, and within a second or two you are pushing inside her. Her hands on your backside, pulling you closer.
Yes yes yes.
The feeling is indescribable. You try not to move too fast, because, if you do, this will all be over; but she is pulling you in, and you can’t help it, thrusting because it’s the only thing you can do. And you can hear her breathing fast against your neck, and something else, a sound like pain or something, a little squeak.
It’s enough to make you stop, to pull her face towards you so you can see her eyes. You have also realised with a shock that this is the first time you’ve not worn a condom.
‘You stopped,’ she breathes. ‘Don’t stop, Aiden, don’t…’
So you stop thinking and fuck her hard, fast, losing control until you feel it building inside you and then you spin over the edge; holding it for a second, holding your breath, then pulling out because you have to, coming between her thighs and then it’s over.
She is holding you, both her arms around you.
You’re aware that she is leaning back against the kitchen table in a way that must be uncomfortable. You hear a soft whine and look down to see Basil sitting at your feet, looking up at you in confusion.
‘Oh, my God,’ you say, and laugh. ‘Sorry, Basil.’
She laughs too. She is breathing hard.
‘I think I just traumatised your dog.’
‘Good job he can’t talk,’ Sarah says.
You look at her face, flushed, her eyes shining. Then you kiss her, tenderly this time, tasting her.
You move away, and she pulls her jeans on, standing awkwardly. A second later, and you are both fully dressed again.
‘I’m sorry,’ you say. ‘That was –’
‘Do you want a drink?’
‘Sure,’ you say.
‘Can you help yourself? I’m just going to, um…’
She disappears upstairs. You’re angry at your loss of control. You have never done that before. You cannot let it happen again.
You find a bottle of wine in the fridge and two glasses, make a mental note to replace it. It’s probably in there ready for her visitors this weekend. Still, it will do for now, and you need something to take the edge off. When you pour the wine you realise your hand is shaking.
She is standing in the doorway.
‘What is it?’ you ask.
Sarah gives an odd little laugh. ‘Nothing. I just thought you’d be gone by the time I got back.’
‘Is that what I do?’ you ask.
‘Yes,’ she replies. ‘You’re always running away.’
‘Ouch.’
‘It doesn’t matter. I’m not trying to stop you.’
‘What if I want to stop?’
You offer her a glass and she takes it and leads you into the living room, curling up into the corner of the couch. You sit next to her, where you can place your hand on her knee.
‘I saw Louis earlier,’ she says.
‘How is he?’ you ask.
‘Hostile,’ she says, drinking her wine.
‘Are you going to tell me what happened between you?’
She gives a short, humourless laugh. ‘I’m not even sure. He blames me for Jim’s death, that’s part of it. He didn’t agree with the decision to not resuscitate. He blames me for the accident too, like I said. So for most of that year he was barely speaking to me.’
‘He loved his dad very much,’ you say. ‘He must have found it tough. It’s not right that he took it out on you.’
There is a pause. She is thinking about everything she says. You wonder if that’s because she still doesn’t trust you.
‘I thought it was. I blamed myself, too. Which meant it was very hard to find a way to reach him. And, in any case, he just wanted to get away. He wanted to escape from it all. After his birthday –’ She stops short, thinks, and drinks some more wine.
‘What were you going to say?’
‘Just that he left home.’
That wasn’t it, you think; or, if it was, it reminded her of something she had forgotten.
‘But you saw him today?’
‘Will turned up this morning. He found out where Louis works, I don’t know how. So we had a weird kind of road trip out to where Louis has this farm. Lots of polytunnels.’
‘And? How was it?’
She looks at her hands, bites her lip. ‘Pretty grim, actually. Still. It was nice of Will to go to the trouble. I think he knows I’m finding it tough without Kitty
.’
You are surprised by this, by her calm acceptance of what you would call interfering, especially from someone she hardly knows.
‘Are you?’
Sarah takes a deep breath in. ‘I’ll manage,’ she says. ‘It’s nice that he cares.’
‘You’re not on your own any more, though.’
You know instantly that it’s the wrong thing to say, and you wish you could take the words back. A cloud has crossed her face. You cannot interfere, or imply that she needs you.
‘It’s late,’ she says.
‘Sure.’
You take your wine glass through to the kitchen, rinse it under the tap. Sarah is standing in the doorway. ‘I would ask you to stay,’ she says. ‘I’m not very good company at the moment, though. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s okay,’ you say, smiling at her to reassure her that you mean it.
‘I didn’t even ask how your day went.’
This time your smile is genuine. ‘It was fine. But I was glad when it was over and I could come home.’
A few minutes later you’re shutting the door of the cottage. It’s cold in here because you’ve been out all day. The door has a deadlock on it, and you have not been bothering to lock it, once you’re home. But now you stare at it, thinking about Will and how he invites himself in, surprises people, interferes in friendships and relationships that are none of his business.
You lock the door.
Perhaps Sarah should start locking her door, too.
Sarah
Sarah finds it difficult to get to sleep.
She should have had a bath to warm up a bit, to relax, because, lying in bed, she has the darkness for company and there’s nothing to stop the thoughts; they crowd over her, jostling for space.
Even taking into account the money Aiden is giving her for rent, it’s not enough. She doesn’t want to resort to bankruptcy, or raising money on the house through an equity release scheme, because Sophie would find out about it and then she would demand to know why Sarah didn’t ask her for help. She could, of course, actually ask Sophie for help. But there is no way to pay Sophie back, and, even though the debt is not her fault but Jim’s, she cannot bring herself to talk about it with her friend.
The thought of it makes her think of her father, who died from a heart attack in his early fifties. He was a proud man, and money was personal. He would sooner have squatted in the corner and had kittens than discuss financial concerns with anyone, much less a friend who was well-off. Then there is her sister, Kay, who lives in Devon with her own family and is, these days, scarcely ever in touch. Could she ask her? It would be a very difficult conversation. Sarah has never got on particularly well with her, and they barely manage Christmas cards.
And then there is the other option, much closer to home. Louis, who seems to be doing well now. Will mentioned a contract with a big hotel. And now Louis has a team of people working for him. Maybe, if she can manage to stay in touch with him, he might give her some work? She could even take the dogs with her.
But it is no use. Even if she could bring herself to ask Louis, which she cannot, what if he said no? How would she ever be able to repair things between them then?
She closes her eyes against the darkness and breathes deeply, slowly, trying to relax, trying to force all thought of money from her mind.
The wind roars outside, wrapping itself around the house and tugging at the loose stones, pushing its way in through the gaps and cracks and mouse holes. That’s the other thing to consider: the house is in need of serious repairs. Even if she were to find a buyer for a grey stone farmhouse hunkering into a cold, damp hillside miles from anywhere, whoever was mad enough to make an offer would probably take one look at the structural survey and pull out.
A sudden noise – not the wind, something close by – makes her eyes snap open again. She sits up. The door to her bedroom, the one that she pushed almost closed, is ajar. She hears a soft whine, and Basil’s tail thumps against the carpeted floor. He usually sleeps downstairs, but tonight perhaps he has sensed that she could do with company. She holds a hand out into empty space, hears him padding across to her, feels a warm lick on her fingers and then a heavy doggy sigh as he settles down next to the bed.
Sarah closes her eyes again and thinks of other things: Kitty, drunk, walking home alone because Oscar, whoever he is, has gone off with someone else… Louis, mad with fury, shouting at her on the morning after his twenty-first birthday… and Jim, in the car beside her, unconscious, blood on his face.
Part Four
Sarah
Kitty’s train is due at six-thirty. Sarah heads into the village in the late afternoon because it’s market day and she can stock up on fresh fruit and vegetables cheaply just as the stalls are closing. After that she drives to Thirsk and stops at Yorkshire Deals to get washing powder and toilet rolls. Once the car is loaded up she heads back out of town, past the racecourse, to the station, where she parks and waits.
It’s dark, early evening, and Sarah keeps checking her phone for messages from Kitty or Sophie. Earlier this afternoon, she sent Sophie a text asking if she wanted to come over for a drink later to see Kitty and meet Oscar.
There has, so far, been no response, which is not like Sophie.
She looks up through the windscreen to see people emerging from the bridge over the platforms and she looks for her daughter, suddenly desperate to see her. It has been the longest time they have ever been apart. And then, there she is! Her beautiful girl, long golden hair under a beanie, holding hands with a man, both of them carrying rucksacks. Kitty waves, and Sarah gets out of the car. Kitty drops her boyfriend’s hand and runs towards Sarah, and Sarah rushes forward too and they crash together, laughing, in a hug that’s tight enough to hurt.
‘Hello, Mum!’
‘Hello, my darling! I am so pleased to see you…’
‘Mum, this is Oscar.’
Sarah takes a moment to size up the boyfriend. He looks nice, she thinks, if a little sullen. She holds out her hand, and it takes him a second or two to respond. His handshake is a little feeble.
‘Hi, Oscar,’ she says. ‘Lovely to meet you.’
Kitty beams, looking from one of them to the other. ‘Did you bring the dogs?’
‘No, I’ve been to the market, I’m afraid.’ She opens the boot and the rucksacks are piled in next to the bags of shopping.
Kitty gets in the passenger seat next to Sarah, leaving Oscar to climb in the back. As they drive through the traffic, such as it is, around Thirsk’s one-way system, Kitty is full of excitement about her second term at uni, the sports clubs, the film club she’s joined.
Sarah begins to feel sorry for Oscar, on his own in the back. ‘How about you, Oscar? How are you finding things?’
Through the rear-view mirror Sarah can see that he is looking out of the window at the houses as they pass by.
‘Oscar’s a second-year,’ Kitty says before he has a chance to speak. ‘He’s already been there and done that. He knows everything already.’
Sarah bristles and then tells herself to give the boy a chance, even though he has barely said a word. To be fair, even if he did speak it would be difficult to carry on a conversation with him in the back and concentrate on the road, so she makes a mental note of all the things she wants to ask him, saving them for later.
‘How is Sophie?’ Kitty asks.
‘Oh, she’s fine,’ Sarah says brightly. ‘I’m hoping she’ll come out for a drink tonight. But she’s not answering my text.’
‘That’s not like Sophie,’ Kitty says, knitting her brows.
‘Who’s this?’ Oscar asks from the back seat.
‘Mum’s best friend. She’s the most glamorous person you’ll ever meet. Her husband’s an MP. He’s a bit of a tit, though.’
‘Kitty!’ Sarah says.
‘He is, Mum. You know he is. He’s quite friendly really – I’m just never sure what Sophie sees in him. She’s far too intelligent to be a trophy wife. She
should be the politician, not him.’
Sarah’s phone chirps with an incoming message. ‘That’ll be her. Can you read it for me?’
Too late, Sarah remembers Will and hopes that Sophie hasn’t messaged her something horribly intimate, or even Aiden – but it’s too late to stop Kitty fishing through Sarah’s bag for her phone.
‘Oh,’ Kitty says. ‘That’s a shame.’
‘What’s it say?’
‘It says: Sorry re this weekend, got lots on. Love to Kitty. Talk next week.’
‘Really?’ says Sarah. ‘That is a shame.’
But Kitty is distracted almost immediately, planning a night out for Oscar tomorrow with her schoolfriends, who seem to have conspired to all be home for this weekend. The car is full of Kitty’s laughter and Oscar saying things from the back that Sarah doesn’t catch.
All she can think about is Sophie. She had said that George was going to be away this weekend – golfing, wasn’t it? So it’s unlikely Sophie will be going with him. What is she planning to do all weekend that’s so important that she can’t get away to see Kitty, even for a quick drink?
And then, of course, the answer to her question presents itself.
Will.
I’ve always been a people-watcher.
In the city this means sitting outside a café with a latte and a book you’re pretending to read. I can’t be arsed with all of that.
I’ve always liked watching people when they are exposed, raw, vulnerable. The woman crying on the train, who thinks nobody can see her. The man counting out his coins before he goes into the pub. And then counting again, because he knows he hasn’t got enough. The girl playing with her phone, waiting, waiting for someone to call. She keeps checking. There is still nothing.