One Moment, One Morning

  ‘It’s not even ten!’

  It is like being struck, this tone – he is both defensive and aggressive in one. And whereas in days gone by she would have let it go, she is now increasingly conscious of how important honesty is within a relationship. She can’t get her head around what compels him to head off into the cold, make his sneaky purchase, then swig it on the street corner, furtively. She has never seen him do it – he hides it from her – but she knows. It is so seedy, so desperate.

  She shudders.

  This is all it has taken – a few centilitres of spirits, a few moments of time – to destroy the tranquillity. The television is still on the same Friday-night show, but now the laughter seems canned and forced; the fire still flickers, but its flames no longer seem to warm the room. Anna still has a rug wrapped tight around her, but now it is to provide protection, not comfort; a shell she wishes was harder, more resistant.

  * * *

  ‘So,’ says the girl. ‘What brings you to this neck of the woods?’

  ‘Oh, er . . .’ Sofia is stumbling – is she blushing, now, too?

  Lou is quick to assess. This is no straightforward platonic encounter, she is certain.

  ‘My, um . . . friends,’ mutters Sofia, eventually.

  The girl looks round the table. Sees Lou, does a mild double take. ‘Don’t I recognize you as well?’

  ‘Mm,’ Lou nods, wishing she didn’t.

  ‘So where do I know you from?’

  Lou catches Howie’s eye. She can tell he’s filling in the gaps at a thousand miles per hour. Doubtless he’s given the three of them a very fruity past history already.

  She struggles to set the record straight at once. ‘I saw you in the Lord Nelson, a couple of days ago.’

  ‘Yes, that’s it!’ The girl laughs, clearly unfazed by the situation.

  ‘So you here with friends too, then?’ asks Lou, hoping to appear cooler than she feels. Not that she’s really interested in why the girl is at the restaurant; she’s far more concerned with what her relationship is to Sofia, how they know each other. There is such a frisson in the air, she can’t suppress a stab of jealousy.

  The girl nods at a nearby large group. ‘It’s my mate’s twenty-first. We’re nearly finished’ – Great, thinks Lou – ‘but we’re going on to the Candy Bar later, if you want to join us.’ Lou’s heart sinks again.

  ‘Ah . . . right,’ nods Sofia. ‘Um . . . yeah. Maybe . . .’

  Lou can hardly keep her emotions under control: one minute she’s buoyed, thinking the girl is hitting on her; now – only seconds later – she’s hitting on Sofia and Sofia’s responding. Her whole evening seems to be disintegrating, but of course she’s powerless to object. As the girl saunters off seductively, she suppresses a shudder.

  Suddenly, Vic pipes up. ‘I hate the Candy Bar. It’s way too young for us.’

  ‘And they won’t let me in,’ says Howie.

  Lou wants to cheer. She is just relaxing slightly when the girl turns, comes back and says to Sofia, ‘Oh, before we leave, you did promise me your number before, remember?’ Lou can’t believe her audacity.

  ‘Um, er . . . yes,’ responds Sofia, all of a dither. Hurriedly, she gets out a pen from her bag, scribbles the digits on a napkin, and hands it to her.

  * * *

  Anna and Steve sit in silence. The television is on, but Anna is no longer watching. She can’t focus; she can’t speak. She is so enraged with Steve, so disappointed in him, she knows if she were to say anything, she wouldn’t be able to disguise her anger. That would only provoke the hostility that inevitably accompanies his drinking, so it’s better to say nothing. But then containing her fury only turns the pressure inwards; she feels like a can of fizzy drink that’s been dropped on the floor, a cylinder stretched so tight that liquid will spray everywhere the moment the top is unsealed.

  For half an hour she sits like this. Eventually she can’t bear it any more. So she lifts the blanket from round her knees, picks up her mobile from the coffee table and gets to her feet.

  ‘Now where are you going?’ asks Steve.

  ‘To make a cup of tea.’ She can’t resist spitting, ‘Why, do you want one?’

  ‘Of course I don’t.’

  ‘Right, then.’

  ‘Why are you taking your mobile?’

  ‘Because I want to make a call.’

  ‘It’s a bit bloody late for that.’

  She checks her watch: he’s right. It is half ten. The only person she would normally feel able to ring at this hour is Karen, and she can hardly phone her tonight of all nights – not with the funeral tomorrow.

  She pauses in the hall, considering. Perhaps there is someone she could speak to, or at least text . . . She heads to the kitchen and puts on the kettle. Whilst she is waiting for it to boil she taps:

  Hi Lou, hope you’re having a nice evening, whatever you’re doing. Sorry to bother you so late, but perhaps you could give me a ring when you get a moment? Tomorrow, or whenever. I’d like to ask your advice. Nothing to do with Karen – it’s my stupid boyfriend this time. Take care, Anna x

  She takes a moment to re-read it. Even at this hour, the professional writer in her won’t permit a reprieve. She presses the backspace several times, deletes ‘my stupid boyfriend’ and amends it to ‘me’. In so doing she is absolving Steve, but she also figures that it’s unreasonable to dump her frustration on Lou at 10.30 on a Friday night. She presses ‘Send’, drums her fingertips on the countertop. She wishes she could speak to Lou right now, but the odds of her having her phone switched on, or hearing it if she does, are negligible. For the time being Anna must wait, contained.

  * * *

  ‘So now where?’ asks Howie. They are huddled together outside the restaurant. ‘How about the Queen’s Head? It’s open late.’

  ‘Sure,’ says Vic, and Lou is relieved to see that Sofia nods in agreement.

  On one hand, she and Sofia have been getting on very well so far. Sofia has given Lou the low-down on much of her life – and somehow Lou has found herself confiding much more than she meant to in return. She has told Sofia not just about her job and friends in Brighton, but has touched on what brought her to the city, her political beliefs, and more. The signals would all be good, but . . .

  Lou is niggled by the way Sofia readily handed the girl in the restaurant her phone number. She’s not sure exactly what it means, but she isn’t comfortable with the implications. Is Sofia going to get together with the girl on another night? Sofia is so attractive, Lou reasons, she could easily be seeing several women. And however much Lou likes her, she doesn’t want to be just another notch on Sofia’s well-chiselled bedpost.

  Once inside the pub, Sofia offers to buy the first round.

  ‘A bottle of Becks, please,’ says Vic, then announces, ‘I need the loo.’

  Lou follows her down there to have the chance for a tête-à-tête.

  ‘Well?’ says Vic, immediately.

  Lou nods. ‘She’s nice.’ She does not want to give too much away.

  ‘Nice?’ squawks Vic. ‘Of course she’s bloody nice! She wouldn’t be my mate if she wasn’t nice. Do you fancy her, though, or what?’

  ‘Oh, honestly, Vic,’ Lou shuffles her feet, looks down. She can feel other women in the queue for the cubicles listening in.

  ‘Aha!’ Vic peers at her face, then claps her hands. ‘I knew it!’ Clearly she is thrilled, though whether she is more delighted to have brought two good friends together or with her own matchmaking ability Lou cannot be sure. ‘I reckon she fancies you, too,’ Vic nods sagely.

  ‘You do?’

  ‘She’s definitely got the hots for you, I can tell.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Sure, all that probing about your life, she’s keen.’

  ‘But what about that girl?’ asks Lou.

  ‘What girl?’

  ‘You know, the one Sofia gave her number.’

  ‘Oh, her. That’s nothing, I’m sure.’

&nb
sp; But Lou can’t dismiss it so easily. Vic has got a vested interest in bringing them together, and as yet Lou doesn’t trust the situation.

  At that moment a cubicle comes free.

  ‘You go first,’ says Vic, and Lou takes her up on the offer.

  As she is sitting inside, she hears Vic, evidently unaware that tipsiness has made her even louder than usual, say sotto voce, ‘Go on, then, what do you think?’

  It can only be Sofia she is talking to. Once she bought the round, she must have come downstairs, too.

  Lou waits, breath bated, for the answer.

  ‘She’s lovely,’ says Sofia.

  Lou smiles. So she does like her, then! But she can tell from Sofia’s voice that she knows Lou is listening. She may simply be being polite: she is not as tipsy as Vic, and is more self-aware.

  ‘But do you fancy her?’ prompts Vic.

  ‘Isn’t she still in here?’ Sofia points out. ‘I didn’t see her when I came down the stairs.’

  ‘Yes, but she won’t hear.’

  ‘I think she will,’ Sofia says firmly, and Lou can’t help but laugh to herself.

  ‘I can hear,’ she says, emerging from her cubicle.

  And as Vic heads into a cubicle, Sofia grins at Lou and knowingly shakes her head.

  * * *

  Karen is lying in the bath. She looks down at her body, distorted by perspective. She has added bubbles to the water; she lifts a leg: bubbles slide down it, a miniature avalanche. She turns her thigh, critical. Her skin is pale, any hint of a summer tan long gone. She could do with toning up, losing a little weight. As if that matters now. She focuses her attention nearer: her breasts, once her pride and joy, are not what they were after breastfeeding two children; they’ve lost their firm roundedness, and sag, slightly forlornly, to each side, lifted a little by the water.

  ‘But I love them,’ she can hear Simon say. He has put the loo seat down so he can use it as a chair and chat to her while she baths. And she nods, knowing this is true; he still gives them ample attention. Not just when they make love, either; sometimes he’ll sneak a swift grapple when no one is looking, taking her by surprise in the kitchen and grabbing her breasts from behind, whispering ‘Phwoar!’ in her ear.

  Besides, his body has changed too; in two decades he has put on nearly two stone, his midriff is not as taut as it was, his tummy boasts more than a hint of flab, his pectorals are no longer hard, even his biceps are softer. Does she mind that, either? No, of course not, it makes her feel better; allows her to feel sexy in spite of her own faults. She’d hate a twenty-something Simon now; it would intimidate her, make her feel vulnerable.

  ‘How could your body have let you down so?’ she whispers. His imperfections were so minor, so normal, they were the flaws of almost every middle-aged man. There were no signs that anything was seriously wrong.

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ he says. ‘Do you think I meant for this to happen?’

  ‘Of course not.’ She likes it here, with her back to the loo; she can’t see him, but she knows he is there. ‘We’ve got your funeral tomorrow,’ she tells him.

  ‘You poor thing,’ he replies. ‘I hope you haven’t got yourself in a stew about it.’

  Her pre-hosting nerves are legendary: she gets irritable and tense, and even Luke has noticed it. ‘Mummy wasn’t very nice before my birthday party,’ he once soberly told Anna. Karen had laughed at the time, touched by his perception.

  The phone rings, breaking her train of thought. She can’t be bothered to get out of the bath; she doesn’t feel like answering it, and anyway, she probably won’t make it in time. The answerphone clicks on automatically.

  ‘You have reached Karen and Simon and Luke and Molly’s house,’ says Simon. It is the first time Karen has heard this announcement since his death. She gasps; it heightens the sense of his presence. She closes her eyes, absorbing the timbre of his voice, sucking it in, as if it were nourishment and she were starving. The words might be commonplace: ‘I’m afraid we’re not here right now, so please leave a message after the tone,’ but each one is rare and precious.

  ‘Hello, darling, it’s Mum.’ The familiar voice takes her by surprise. It is late for her mother to be calling. She and Karen’s father live in the Algarve, where they are an hour ahead; it must be nearly midnight there. ‘I’d just thought I’d let you know I’ll be arriving at Gatwick at nine tomorrow morning, so I should be with you by eleven or so,’ she says. ‘I’ve managed to find someone to look after your father for a few days too, so I can stay until Tuesday, at least, or if he seems to be doing OK without me, Wednesday or Thursday.’

  As she hears the phone click down, Karen sighs with relief.

  The moment her mother says she is coming, Karen realizes how dreadfully she has missed having her there. There is no substitute for maternal love at a time like this, but her parents are in their seventies and live a long way away. Moreover, Karen’s father has Alzheimer’s disease and can’t be left for any length of time without a carer. It is a role her mother fulfils round the clock, and finding a substitute is never easy. Since her father’s diagnosis Karen has got used to putting her own needs second – it has been several years since she has made many demands of her mother, let alone her father. Even this weekend just gone she’d said she would be OK with Phyllis and Anna to support her until the day of the funeral, and that despite her mother protesting she’d like to come sooner. But now she realizes that however supportive others have been, it is not the same. Phyllis has her own grief; Anna is not her mother.

  Bizarrely, having her needs met at last makes Karen feel sadder. She starts to cry.

  ‘I want my Mummy,’ she sniffs.

  She can sense Simon, who is still sitting behind her, nod in understanding. Momentarily, she feels no older than Luke, or even Molly, and, with a childlike gesture, wipes her cheeks with the back of her hand. In the damp atmosphere of the bathroom, she doesn’t know where condensation begins and tears end.

  It’s gone one in the morning by the time they stumble out of the pub.

  ‘Fancy a coffee at ours?’ suggests Howie.

  Lou is keen to prolong the evening as long as possible and Howie lives close to her place. ‘I’m up for it.’

  ‘Me too,’ say Sofia and Vic.

  It’s all going swimmingly, but Lou has yet to ascertain what exactly to make of Sofia. Given Sofia’s body language, Lou is pretty certain she is physically attracted to her. Sofia has been sitting in the pub with her arm resting on the back of the bench they were sharing, for instance, almost around Lou’s shoulders, for over two hours. She’s been laughing a lot, too. But there has been no opportunity for either one of them to do more with the others so near, making it hard to gauge for sure. And Lou still can’t shake her concern that Sofia may have several women interested in her – good-looking ones at that – and vice versa.

  Aargh! She would so like to know how Sofia feels! Why is it so complicated? She mentally kicks herself. When merely meeting someone is ridden with angst and open to misinterpretation, is it any wonder she is so hopeless at relationships?

  Lord, she realizes, she has been so wrapped up in her thoughts that the others are way ahead of her. But Sofia has paused at the corner to wait. Lou runs to catch up.

  ‘So sorry,’ she says, breathless. ‘I was in a world of my own.’

  ‘No, it’s good,’ says Sofia. And before Lou can stop her, or pull it away, she grabs her hand.

  Sofia’s palm feels lovely; indeed, the gesture seems so genuine, so affectionate, so intimate, that all at once Lou can’t bear the suspense any longer. She might be confused, but she’s attracted to Sofia so she has to know, before things – they – go any further.

  ‘Um . . . Can I ask you something?’ she says.

  ‘Yeah, what?’

  Lou is filled with trepidation – she finds this hard. But it’s dark and they’re a bit drunk – with luck her embarrassment is, at least slightly, hidden. Eventually she says, ‘That girl, in the restaura
nt . . .?’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘You gave her your number,’ says Lou, quietly.

  Sofia is about to laugh, but then seems to hear the anxiety in Lou’s voice, and turns to face her.

  ‘You didn’t think I was interested in her, did you?’

  Lou is silent. She feels so exposed, awkward, she can’t admit it explicitly.

  Sofia continues, ‘I met her at a party in London a few weeks ago.’

  Lou’s heart begins to pound. Her reaction might seem excessive, but she can’t help it; her hopes are up, yet she’s bracing herself for disappointment.

  Sofia continues, ‘And I think she fancies me a bit, yes . . .’

  Lou can hardly bear to hear more, yet she has to know.

  ‘. . . Though frankly, I don’t think she’s that picky.’

  Lou’s mind races back to the Lord Nelson. That figures, she thinks; she came on to me a little, too.

  ‘Anyway, she’s going to Spain soon.’

  ‘Ah . . .’

  ‘And I said I have a friend in Madrid who is looking for a room-mate,’ Sofia finishes. ‘She wanted my number so I could put them in touch.’

  ‘Oh.’ All at once, Lou feels really, really foolish.

  Sofia adds, ‘Actually, I left the party without giving it to her originally because I found her a bit full on. Then I felt caught – what is the phrase? “on the hop” – by her at the restaurant just now. I was embarrassed.’

  ‘I see,’ says Lou.

  They carry on walking, in silence, but the air is full of Lou’s thoughts. She’s happy there was nothing in it, but dismayed nonetheless.

  I’ve made a total prat of myself, she thinks. And now Sofia knows just how keen I am; how mortifying! When will I ever learn?

  They’re nearly at Howie’s and she’s blown it completely.

  But then Sofia turns, sweeps her into a doorway and kisses her.

  Lou is astonished at first – it seems to be happening so easily, so fast. Yet in seconds she’s far too caught up into the experience to analyse. She just gives in to it, and my, what a kiss it is. It’s everything Lou has been yearning for, and more. Sofia smells gorgeous – gorgeous! – and her mouth is delicious, all soft and wet and warm; Lou never wants it to stop. They kiss for ages. Ages. She had forgotten how fantastic it can be.