Life Begins (41 page)

Sam went for his push-off. He could see his escape in his head, as smooth as a new map: a U-turn, a sprint of acceleration, he would be back at the busy road – visible now like some slice of promised land, at the end of the street – before the five of them had even blinked. But as he started to turn the three boys quickened their pace and stepped into the gap through which he needed to pass. The other two, meanwhile, had abandoned their boards and were walking fast, rolling on the balls of their feet, towards the pavement. In the hand of the taller one Sam saw something flash as it caught the sun. The boy, seeing him look, grinned, revealing a line of messed-up teeth.

Sam abandoned the U-turn and began instead to cycle on past the garage. Out of the corner of his eye he was aware of the first two, running now to reach him, slicing the air with their hands for added speed. The taller one was faster, the knife like an extra gleaming finger shooting out of his palm. Sam stood up on his pedals, keeping his gaze fixed on the narrowing road. Much further ahead the street petered out into the shadows of a long low block of tiered flats. But before that there was a turning right; a turning he might be able to reach, if the faster one would only trip or slow down, or if the muscles in his legs could just stop shaking long enough for him to get the necessary purchase for a proper sprint – like the one he had managed so easily the afternoon before, racing against the second hand of his watch as he did the final belt down his street, improving his personal best by almost two full minutes.

Dominic lay on his back with his hands under his head, the points of his elbows just touching the edges of the pillow. The bed was a small double, wedged into a corner of the
room to make space for a chest of drawers, a wardrobe and a tall rack overflowing with shoes. Even so, the wardrobe doors couldn’t open fully without hitting the side of the bed; efforts to ignore this constraint had left two chiselled, symmetrical grooves in its wooden frame. Dominic had noticed them while he was kneeling with his head between Petra’s long legs, trying to think about the task in hand rather than the discomfort of the hard floor against his kneecaps.

It had got better, though, much better. Petra, certainly, had seemed satisfied, scattering his face with kisses afterwards and saying, ‘Lovely,’ before springing out of bed to shower. Lying alone, Dominic had counted shoes, then thought about Rose who was on a birthday sleepover with a pretty Nigerian girl called Gabby, a new friend apparently – not displacing Sam, his daughter had explained, with her endearing seriousness, but in addition to him. This second date had been at Petra’s instigation, as had the decision to cut straight to the business of taking off their clothes.

Dominic crossed his legs and looked at his feet, which Maggie had often told him were unusually elegant for a man, elegant and
long
, she had liked to tease, tweaking his toes. It had been rather lovely having his body known so well, he reflected now, to have it regarded as a terrain that held no secrets, possessed jointly for use and commentary and pleasure.

‘Dominic, you are handsome,’ remarked Petra, perhaps catching the dreamy look in his eye as she reappeared decked in two towels, one arranged as a turban, the other a mini-dress. ‘I like you a lot.’ She wagged a finger at him as she rummaged in a drawer spilling with underwear. ‘But now I have to go out. It is a party. But only cocktails. I will be back so we can have dinner and sex again. In two hours. If
you like?’ She crossed to the bed and kissed him, sensuously this time, wetting his lips with her tongue before pushing her mouth hard against his.

‘Actually, I’d better be getting home,’ Dominic murmured. ‘For Rose,’ he added, surprising himself with the lie.

‘That is very sad. Now I am sad.’ She pouted as she pulled away, then busied herself with fastening her bra, not looking sad at all.

Outside, the sun was a smudge of bloody orange, like a dying ember in a dark hearth.

‘It will rain again,’ announced Petra as they emerged on to the pavement. She tugged up the collar of the black denim jacket that had been pulled on over a glittering silver T-shirt and crisp white jeans, and tucked her long hair inside.

‘I have a brolly – an umbrella – in the car if you want.’

‘No, I am late. I must go now.’ She turned smartly on her heel, then spun back again. ‘I could come to your house after my party, maybe? But no,’ she added, correcting herself in the fraction of a second it took Dominic to hesitate. ‘Your Rose, she wouldn’t like it. Girls who love their daddies – I understand that.’ She was shaking her head in amusement as she walked away.

Dominic drove home slowly, mulling over this parting remark and his needless sequestering of his daughter as an alibi. It bothered him, too, that during the course of their two recent, very intimate encounters, Petra had still told him practically nothing about herself, peppering him instead with questions about the city and Benedict and films, a subject on which she was both well informed and passionate. Whenever he, almost out of a sense of duty, steered the conversation towards Maggie, she had deftly steered it away again, pressing to hear more about his plans for the bookshop and warning him, in her somewhat monotone, textbook English,
that he would probably miss the adrenalin of impossible deadlines and mesmerizing bonuses.

Maybe Benedict had given her a thorough briefing on the Maggie front, Dominic mused, fighting a downturn in spirits as he let himself into his empty house and checked for messages. Since their slightly terse exchange outside the café his brother had pointedly made no contact and Dominic was beginning to feel the silence. ‘Okay, okay, I’m
sorry
,’ he barked into the phone, after hearing the familiar recording of Benedict’s voice, delivered irritatingly and affectedly over what sounded like a soundtrack of a Bach fugue. ‘You were
right.
There is something about Charlotte Turner… but, yes, a woman like that would gobble me up for breakfast and spit me out by lunch and I happen to know that she’s quite messed up, so I shall steer well clear. And,’ he continued slyly, certain that the right hook would trigger a response, ‘I have just spent a second delightful afternoon with the delectable Petra… and, let me see, what else? Ah, yes, it’s Rose’s sports day soon – and she’d like you to be there. Your performance in the three-legged in the Home Counties last year remains a vivid and dear memory. Look, just call me, you bugger, can’t you?’

Tucking the house phone and his mobile into his trouser pockets, Dominic prepared himself a tray of cold meat, cheese, olives and bread and settled down on the sitting-room sofa with some paperwork. There was a lot to attend to – a long list of friends and institutions still requiring change-of-address slips, forms from utility companies and a letter from the employment lawyer, expressing an optimistic plan to negotiate a better settlement – six months’ severance pay instead of three – if he could supply the following information…

Dominic had soon abandoned it in favour of the sales
figures from Ravens Books. The for-sale sign had triggered a couple of other interested parties, but on the phone that morning Jason, sounding tense and weary, had almost guaranteed the lease was his if he could meet their asking price of sixty thousand pounds. That was for the ‘goodwill’ element of the custom they were passing on. On top of that there would be an annual rent of twenty-five thousand, plus rates, of course, which totalled five thousand… Dominic paused, sucking the end of his pencil and pondering some of the ideas Charlotte had mentioned for rearranging the shop, improving stock and forging stronger links with local schools. No matter. He whacked his pencil against the notepad. He would get Charlotte to leave, he decided, along with the hapless Shona. He would explain that he needed one experienced full-time employee. With Sam in the mix she was bound to refuse. Dominic fetched a second beer to celebrate the decision and settled back on the sofa, giving up on his papers and channel-hopping vainly in search of something to match his mood.

By eight thirty Eve had picked at two courses and assailed the second bottle of wine with a speed and determination that seemed to Charlotte almost worthy of admiration. Rather less easy to commend, however, was the sight of her guest sprawling in the upright kitchen chair, tapping the ash of her endless cigarettes into the ruin of her uneaten food and resting her feet on the edge of the recycling box that lived next to Jasper’s bed. The dachshund, after sniffing Eve’s empty suede shoes, had retreated to his third favourite sleeping place, between the coat stand and the doormat in the hall.

A little on edge, thanks to Eve’s outburst on the stairs, Charlotte had found that she, too, had little appetite, either
for her chilli con carne or the second bottle of wine. Having to feign an interest in the anecdotes (some on their second outing already) about the glorious life of a self-made mailorder guru, the evening – not to mention the next few days – was starting to look decidedly uninviting. But it was also quite funny, Charlotte conceded privately, to be confronted by this new, extrovert version of her once staid friend. What Sam would make of her she could hardly imagine. And telling Theresa would be enjoyable, too. She swallowed a yawn as she started – with what she hoped was a tactful lack of fuss – to stack their dirty plates.

Eve sprang to life in the same instant, sliding her feet off the box and clutching the edge of the table. Charlotte, imagining she was to be offered assistance, fearing, mildly, for the safety of her crockery, gestured at her to relax back into her seat.

‘Sam fucking Mendes.’

‘Pardon?’ Charlotte paused with her clutch of dishes.

‘Martin… all that university directing… he could have been as good as Sam Mendes.’

Charlotte laughed as she continued clearing up. ‘I’m not sure you’re right about that, Eve, but Martin would certainly be flattered to hear it. That thing in the bedside table, by the way,’ she added, unable to resist the urge to set the record straight, even with someone whom she knew would never again be a close friend, someone manifestly in danger of losing the power to make much sense of anything, ‘it was the end of a long road, of course. Martin had been seeing other women – I’d suspected it for years – but that was the first hard evidence. It was a relief, to be honest. The woman to whom it refers is the one he’s living with now. They’re expecting their first child. It took a while, but I’m fine about it now – really fine.’ She straightened from stacking the
dishwasher and pulled a face. ‘Marriage, children – nothing but trouble. How wise of you to avoid them.’

Eve frowned, trying to bring Charlotte more sharply into focus. For her the evening had now reached the final, always riveting stage when her mind had broken sufficiently free of her body and the tedious constraints of conscience and social nicety to cartwheel down any track it chose. She needed to grip the edge of the table because, like the other items of furniture in the room, it had started to rise and fall on an invisible sea and she feared that without physical security it might float out of the room. ‘Wise?’ Liking the word, and its effect upon Charlotte, who put down her bundle of knives and at last paid attention, Eve repeated it, more forcefully, flexing her lips like an opera singer. ‘There was only ever one man for me.’

Charlotte picked up her cutlery again. ‘And who was that?’

‘Who do you think?’ she snapped. ‘Martin, of course. But you
knew
that. You
knew.’

Charlotte’s mouth opened, then closed. ‘No, I… at least…’

We’d slept together, did you know that? Before those stupid auditions. Just the once, and it might have been the start of something – but then you came along and he ended it. He was always a one-woman man, Martin… The girl before me – he cut her off too, ruthlessly, the same
day
he met me. Love, loyalty, till-death-do-us-part – he believed in that stuff.’

‘And so did I,’ Charlotte whispered, appalled but fascinated, as the past she kept trying to understand heaved, reconfiguring itself yet again. ‘I knew that you… I mean, I thought it was a crush. I had no idea. I’m so sorry.’

‘And he could have loved me.’ Eve beat the table with her fist, losing another round in the fight against total inebriation. ‘I know, because after Sam was born, with you on
Planet Zog – never there, always upstairs, or out, or sleeping or feeding or cooing over that bloody child of yours, always ignoring
him –
we got quite close again, the pair of us. But he wouldn’t – he
wouldn’t
admit it or do anything
about
it or even speak so much as a word against you.’ She banged the table again, so hard that Charlotte jumped.

‘Look, Eve, I had no idea, I –’ Charlotte faltered, the idea dawning that this embitterment was what had prompted Eve to return, the reason, ultimately, for getting in touch. No wonder the rekindling of the friendship had felt so odd, so doomed.

Eve had dropped her head into her hands and was plucking at her hair. ‘Part of going to the States was to get away from it – from you.’ She lifted one hand and pointed a finger at Charlotte. ‘Bloody, bloody you.’

‘I think,’ Charlotte ventured softly, ‘that maybe it’s time to put all this behind us, time, perhaps, to call it a day and go to bed.’

‘And I think maybe you should shut the fuck up.’

Charlotte stood very still, trying to dredge some pity from within the outrage, trying, still, to make sense of everything. That Eve and Martin had briefly been close did not surprise her somehow. Neither did the pitiful disclosure that Eve had held a torch for him for years afterwards. No, what was truly shocking was this further evidence of Martin’s resistance, of his
faithfulness.
A
one-woman man
, not speaking a word against her, fighting for their marriage, while she… What had she been doing? Loving Sam, wallowing in wifely self-pity, certain of betrayal before it had happened… maybe, even,
making
it happen. Charlotte caught her breath, recalling again the claims Cindy had made, how Martin had held out. ‘I am sorry you’re unhappy, Eve,’ she murmured. ‘I’ve made so many mistakes – I’m only just beginning to
realize quite how many – but your feelings… they’re not among them. They, at least, are not my fault.’