One Moment, One Morning

  ‘Of course,’ nods Karen.

  ‘Here—’ Anna interrupts to hand him a glass of bubbly. ‘Take this with you.’

  *

  Karen looks round the kitchen. Who would have guessed, eighteen months back – whoever would have guessed – that the next time the surfaces would be covered in dishes prepared in her husband’s honour, it would be for his funeral?

  She still can’t fully conceive of it. Back then, she had assumed that they had twenty more years together, minimum. Fifty-one is no age for anyone to die, but Simon – her Simon?

  Fifty-one . . .

  It’s all so unfair, so terribly, so dreadfully unfair.

  Suddenly, Karen is overpowered by fury. And before she can stop herself, she picks up a plastic bowl, piled high with one of Steve’s lovingly prepared salads. She doesn’t pause to worry if she might break something or scare the children and Phyllis in the living room next door.

  ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRGGGGHHHH!‘ she roars, a banshee howl from the depths of her gut, and hurls the bowl across the room.

  The container bounces off the far wall, splattering beans, sweetcorn and vinaigrette all over the paintwork, and lands, with a useless clatter, on the terracotta-tiled floor.

  * * *

  Lou is sitting in her favourite cafe, overlooking the beach, watching teenage boys skid pebbles into the sea. She ought to go home, shower for tonight, but she needs to clear her head, blow away the sense of other people’s tragedy that seems to cling to her. So she has come here, instead, a mug of tea on the table before her, steaming. The glittering and playful light of that morning has gone; the day is fading, fast. It has turned cloudy and chilly and windy, but a bright-yellow tarpaulin shelters her from the worst. Where the boys are playing close to the shore, the water is grey, tinged with orange from churned-up sand, and white horses run all the way to the horizon, a reminder of the power of the elements.

  What a week, she thinks, and it is only Friday.

  Simon’s death touched Lou. And now, there is Jim. How strange, how appallingly sad, that his ex-wife remarrying seems to have been the catalyst that drove him to it.

  Lou exhales, slowly.

  Her emotions are moving, colliding, re-settling as a result of events; intensifying the sense of her own mortality, making her question her life, how happy she is. And perhaps more than anything, what she feels most strongly as she sits, hands wrapped round her mug of tea, is loneliness.

  She first touched on it the night before, that feeling, when she compared her own situation to Karen’s. And now, after this, with Jim, she feels it even more acutely: as she looks down at the pebbles in every shade and shape of brown and pink and beige, Simon’s death, Jim’s suicide, have made her feel gut-wrenchingly alone. Not just alone, but insignificant, as if she is just one tiny stone on an infinite swathe of shingle.

  Shingle . . . Suddenly, she remembers: Tuesday. She casts her mind back to the day after Simon died. Wasn’t that when she saw an ambulance near here, by the pier? She was on her way to the station, cycling: she had to swerve . . . There was a body, being carried from the beach . . .

  Christ, she wonders, was that Jim?

  She puts her head in her hands.

  Poor Jim. The cottage cheese man. The bin man. And to have walked into the sea: what a brutal, desolate way to go.

  Lou wouldn’t have been in Jim’s head that day for the world.

  By contrast, in a way, she almost envies Karen. Seeing Karen weep for Simon, hearing her talk of him, has made Lou all the more conscious that there is no one special in her life, that she has no partner. She might not be Jim, but still she has had no one to tell about what happened on the train the other morning. So far, other than Anna and Karen, no one she knows is aware that she has witnessed death, first-hand, that week. No one knows she has met with Karen, that they have talked, and Lou has tried to help. So she is carrying the experience on her own. And she is sick of it, having to bear everything alone. Absolutely sick of it. Will it always be this way?

  Yet at once another emotion collides with this one: guilt. So she rebukes herself: how can she envy Karen? It is perverse of her, selfish. Her life, her problems, her loneliness; they are nothing, really. She is not homeless; she has not lost a partner. And if she is alone, then whose fault is it, whose decision, ultimately, other than hers?

  *

  ‘You know your problem? You’re not out, Lou, that’s what it is.’

  Opposite Lou, limbs tense with fury, chin up, defiant, is Fi, her girlfriend of nearly two years. They are standing in the kitchen of Lou’s attic flat, arguing. They are always rowing, but this is the worst yet; Lou can already tell that from here, there will be no going back.

  ‘I am,’ protests Lou.

  ‘No, you’re not. Not to your family.’

  ‘My sister knows.’

  ‘That’s easy. She’s our generation. What about your mum? Your aunt?’

  ‘Why is it such a big deal?’ Lou asks.

  ‘Because it’s important, Lou, that’s why. I know you think it doesn’t matter, but it does. It matters hugely, and the reason you don’t think it does is because you can’t face doing it.’

  Ouch, that hurts. Because it’s true. Lou can’t face it, and Fi can’t understand why.

  ‘I’m fed up with it,’ says Fi. ‘Coming to stay with your mother, pretending. It’s not the separate bedrooms – Jeez, I can live without sex for a night or two. It’s the lies. “This is my friend Fi”’ – she mimics a pathetic voice. ‘It’s the evasive answers when your mother asks if there’s a man in your life. I’m not your friend; I’m your girlfriend, your lover. It’s ludicrous at your age, to be telling her otherwise. You’re over thirty years old.’

  ‘You don’t understand. She’s not like your parents. She’s not liberal and understanding. She doesn’t read the Guardian and live in Kentish Town and lecture in politics. She’s old-fashioned and prudish. She runs a B&B in Hertfordshire and reads the Daily Mail. She’d go ballistic.’

  ‘I know. I’ve seen what she’s like. I’ve frigging well met her. But that’s not the point. You’re making this issue all about her, but actually, it’s about you. You’re not being true to yourself, Lou, keeping it secret. Frankly, I don’t give a fuck about her.’ Fi shakes her head, despairing. ‘It’s you I give a fuck about. And so what if she goes ballistic? You’ll live through it.’

  It’s at this moment, exactly, that Lou withdraws. She says nothing, just shrugs her shoulders. She knows Fi is driven nuts by the way she closes down; that, especially coming on top of her refusal to tell her mother, it will push Fi even further away. Fi has said countless times she can’t bear the way Lou does this, that it makes her feel shut out, rejected.

  But Lou can’t explain; she cannot go there. It is too complicated, too fraught. It is to do with losing her father, this whole issue. And it is not only that she promised her Dad, when he died, not to tell her mother. It is also – more, maybe – Lou’s fear that if she does tell her, her mother will cut her off, and she’ll lose her mother too. Losing one parent was bad enough, but losing both – no matter what she thinks of her mother – Lou can’t face that. If she is forced to make a choice, and she does feel she is being forced, she would rather lose Fi, that is the truth of it.

  Once more, Lou is by the ticket barriers on Brighton station, waiting, this time for Vic and Sofia. Her mood has lifted and she is more excited now: they are due any minute. Lou watches the platforms eagerly, not sure where the train will come in. In London – and every other place Lou has lived – trains always arrive on the same platform, day in, day out. But in Brighton, it seems far more ad hoc. It strikes her as appropriate, this lack of order and formality, as if irreverence has permeated the very infrastructure of the city. She imagines what consternation it would cause if trains to and from her hometown were to run like this. In Hitchin, everything is very orderly. Even the station flora and fauna are perfectly manicured all year round.

  Lou sometime
s indulges in a sort of ‘watched kettle never boils’ philosophy; she is superstitious that way. So she wanders into WHSmith nearby on the concourse, hoping it will precipitate the train’s arrival. The newsagent is crammed, but Lou doesn’t want to make a purchase; it’s distraction she is after: she’s trying not to admit it to herself, but she is nervous.

  A train draws in, the doors open. Sure enough, there is her friend, striding down the platform, looking as incredible as ever. Vic is nearly six feet tall and part Jamaican. With a mass of frizzy shoulder-length hair and statuesque figure, she’d be striking in any event, but she never shies from creating an impression: today she is dressed in giant spike heels and a fake leopard-skin coat, wheeling a bright-red patent bag behind her.

  Seconds later, Vic sees Lou, waves enthusiastically, and with confident strides cuts a swathe through the throng. Before Lou can quite work out what’s happening, she is being kissed on each cheek with a flamboyant ‘Mwah! Darling! Mwah! Darling!’ and left reeling by an astonishingly strong musk perfume. As Lou emerges from the leopard-skin embrace, she looks around and realizes Vic has no one in tow: she is alone.

  ‘Where’s Sofia?’ she asks. Perhaps she’s not coming. No, Vic wouldn’t do that to her, surely.

  ‘She ended up on a different train,’ breezes Vic. ‘I said I was meeting you here, she should be here any moment.’

  Just then a voice over Lou’s shoulder interrupts. ‘Vic, hi. Lou, er . . . hello . . .’

  Lou turns, takes in short dark tousled hair, deep brown eyes . . . Attraction hits her in the solar plexus. For Sofia is not merely pretty: she’s lovely, a gorgeous pixie, a girl Puck.

  ‘Lou, Sofia. Sofia, Lou.’

  Wow, thinks Lou, but immediately wonders, what on earth is a girl like this doing, coming to meet me? She can hardly be short of offers.

  They head to the taxi rank outside the station. The queue is short and in a couple of minutes Lou and Sofia are ensconced on the back seat of a cab.

  ‘Budge up,’ says Vic. ‘Oh, sod it, never mind. I’ll sit in the front.’

  With a huff, Vic plonks herself next to the driver and shuts the door.

  ‘Where in Kemptown?’ asks the driver.

  Lou leans towards him. ‘Top end of Magdalene Street, please.’

  Air escapes from the puffed plastic seat as she sits back, and she is acutely conscious of Sofia’s presence beside her. It is as if the space between them is filled with static. She imagines it like one of those Van de Graaff generators; she had a small one in the early 1980s shaped like a globe: it shot sparks when you held your hand close to it, tiny forks of lightning connecting to your palm.

  Vic swivels round. ‘So what’s the plan?’

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘Bit peckish,’ says Vic. ‘I’m not sure I’ll last the whole night without anything.’

  It’s as Lou expected; it takes a lot to fuel Vic’s height and flamboyance, so she’s thought this through earlier. ‘We could go to that tapas place on the Lanes, if you’re happy to, then everyone can have what they fancy.’ There’s lots of choice, and it’s not expensive, so Lou won’t have to create a fuss about being vegetarian or strapped for cash. She has one worry, nevertheless: ‘If that’s OK by you, Sofia? I think it’s quite good – the owner is Spanish – but it still probably won’t compare to the tapas you can get at home.’

  ‘That’s fine. I am sure even bad tapas are better than a lot of English food.’ Sofia smiles and winks, teasing. It only makes Lou flustered – she’s not sure how to react.

  They dump their bags at Lou’s flat and swiftly head out. The restaurant is a brisk ten minutes’ walk away, and when they arrive it is already buzzing. Gingham tablecloths and wooden tables and chairs are packed tightly together; there is barely a seat free.

  ‘Wonder if Howie’s here? Save us waiting.’ Vic scans the room. ‘Ha! There he is.’

  She is right: sitting at a table in the far corner, a bottle of wine open before him, is a familiar figure: goatee-bearded, bespectacled, close-shaven head, peering at the menu. Inevitably, Vic’s leopard-skin presence distracts him and he looks up and beckons them over.

  Vic eases her way through. ‘Hiya. How are you?’

  Howie grins. ‘Fine. You?’

  ‘I’m great. Blimey, though – you look totally different. Last time we met you were a pirate, and I was a Madame.’

  ‘So you remember each other,’ Lou interrupts. She is conscious Sofia is standing politely, waiting. ‘Howie, this is Vic’s friend, Sofia.’

  ‘Sofia?’ Howie raises an eyebrow.

  Lou can detect innuendo in the gesture. Damn it, she thinks. I should never have confessed to him Vic is setting me up – it’ll only intrigue him and make me more self-conscious.

  Howie hands the menu to Sofia the moment she is seated. While she is perusing he directs her: ‘The chorizo is very good.’

  ‘Sofia’s Spanish.’ Lou feels protective. Howie can be full on at times; that’s why he and Vic got on so well previously – two drama queens together.

  ‘I don’t eat meat,’ Sofia explains.

  Lou is surprised, and pleased – more common ground.

  ‘That’s pretty unusual for a Spaniard,’ observes Howie, filling their glasses. ‘How did that go down at home?’

  ‘One of the reasons I left,’ says Sofia wryly.

  ‘So, been here long, then?’

  ‘Seven years.’

  ‘You should move to Brighton,’ says Howie. Like many who have adopted it as their home, he is evangelical about the city’s allure. ‘It’s full of vegetarians.’

  ‘I do love it here.’ Sofia glances up, catching Lou’s eye.

  That was a sign, wasn’t it, Lou thinks, approbation of my city? Or am I imagining it? She half wishes Howie would talk to Vic, instead; after all, they’ve met before. But of course Howie is more interested in Sofia – he knows Lou may fancy her. She couldn’t have created a more titillating opportunity for him if she’d tried.

  ‘So tell us about yourself,’ Howie continues. But his interrogation could be useful: he might get her to reveal what Lou is too diplomatic to ask.

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Let’s start with what brought you to England.’

  ‘I’m a designer. My firm were doing a big project here, and they wanted someone who could speak both Spanish and English to oversee it. So they sent me. I’ve probably been there a bit too long now, but I love the people and they are very good to me.’

  ‘So where are they based?’

  ‘East Croydon.’

  Howie makes the leap in a flash. ‘So you could move here! Where do you live now?’

  ‘Dalston.’

  ‘Good God, woman – it must take you an age to get to work from there.’

  ‘It’s not that bad – just over an hour. And I have lots of friends nearby.’

  ‘But if it’s friends you’re after, then where better than here? It’s full of dykes.’

  ‘I like my friends. They’re special.’

  Lou is glad. So far, it’s looking rather promising. Sofia seems to have similar priorities: friends are important to her, too. And it sounds as if Sofia’s company rates her highly – she must have talent. But Lou mustn’t get ahead of herself. She reins herself in; if Sofia is as attractive and accomplished as she seems, Lou is concerned she’s out of her league.

  ‘Well, clearly we’ll have to work on you.’ He turns to Lou and Vic. ‘Won’t we?’ Then he reaches over for the wine, tops up their glasses, signals to the waiter and hands him the empty bottle. ‘Same again, please.’

  As the waiter turns back to the bar, he nearly collides with a fellow diner, on her way to their table.

  ‘Hello,’ she says.

  Lou gulps. Crazy-coloured hair, quirky clothes, cute face: it’s the student from behind the bar in the pub on Trafalgar Street.

  Well I never, thinks Lou. What are the odds of this? I don’t get so much as the bat of an eyelash in months,
then I meet two nice-looking women in one evening.

  She’s just thinking romantic possibilities seem like buses when the girl says, provocatively, ‘Fancy seeing you here.’ She flashes that same flirtatious smile she gave when she served Lou at the Lord Nelson.

  ‘Indeed,’ says Lou, taken aback by her directness. ‘Small world.’ Again she feels herself blushing.

  The girl says, ‘Didn’t know you ever came to Brighton. You should have said.’

  And Lou realizes – the girl’s flirtatious smile is not for her at all.

  It’s not Lou she’s recognized: it’s Sofia.

  Anna and Steve are watching television. A comedy quiz where the guests comment on current affairs, it is one of Anna’s favourite programmes. She associates it with winding down after a busy week; she enjoys the ironic humour and banter. The lights are low, the fire is lit, flames flicker on the ceiling, and Anna, snuggled under a rug on the sofa, is the most relaxed she has been in days. Then Steve gets to his feet.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she asks.

  ‘To buy some fags.’

  At once Anna braces, suspicious. ‘Oh.’

  He doesn’t look at her; he doesn’t have to. She knows. But before she can take issue, he is gone.

  Anna pulls her knees in tight, wraps her arms around them. They have done so well today, Steve has been wonderful; why must he do this? It’s no better because she can see it coming.

  He is gone slightly longer than he should be; she is just beginning to worry when the door slams. He enters the room again, clutching a plastic bag. ‘Fancy a glass of red wine?’ He removes his cigarettes, puts them on the mantelpiece, along with a bottle.

  She shakes her head.

  ‘I’m going to.’

  She sighs. ‘It’s a bit late.’ It’s not, of course, but Anna doesn’t know how to voice the fact that she understands a glass of red won’t be his first drink of the evening. Those extra few minutes have betrayed him: he will have bought some vodka, with luck a quarter bottle, but more likely half; downed it, perhaps with a can of Red Bull, while he was out. Yet Anna can’t accuse him of that without precipitating a scene, so instead protests about the hour, even though she knows it’s pointless and makes her sound a killjoy.