Never Alone (3 page)

You love things like this: the opportunity to meet all these new people in an environment in which they are all unguarded, feeling safe. They do not realise how much they reveal about themselves, and how quickly.

The exception to this is Sarah, who is not at all comfortable. She has some degree of social anxiety, you think. It’s endearing. Considering her career, which was at one point stellar, and how she was at university, how determined and focused and calm, she is very different now. It’s as though she has been wrung out by the world and discarded. You think that’s what getting married and having two children does to you – you become a wife and a mother, and the core part of you is… what’s the word?

Desiccated.

You have seen this time and time again, with clients who have visited you, trying to find themselves. Trying to irrigate the dry land, trying to find a way to grow.

Irrigation is your speciality.

That thought makes you smile.

Her friend Sophie is intriguing, though. She is charming, and mildly flirtatious, looking you in the eye and touching you gently on the arm when she’s talking to you, but she does that with everyone, except her husband. He is a bore, of course, holding court with the other friends who have joined them, laughing like a drain at his own anecdotes and filling everyone’s glasses.

You have been trying to think what it was that you said, just before you got in the car. Something happened, some memory or something you said made her sad. It came off her in waves, the desolation; you could almost smell it.

She won’t admit to it, if you ask. She won’t tell you. It doesn’t matter; you know better than to push someone when they’re in that vulnerable state. You can wait. You’ll find out soon enough.

And the other thing that’s bothering you. Her son – Louis. She avoided your question neatly, distracting you with the bathroom. She doesn’t want to talk about him.

You remember seeing photos over the years, via the infrequent letters and then on Facebook, the children growing up. Holidays, first days at school, parties; Louis with his arms thrown around his mum’s neck. They were close, always close. What has happened there?

Sarah and Sophie are gossiping, heads together. Of the two, you can see that Sophie, tall, with glossy dark hair and an almost effortless elegance, is the more traditionally attractive.

They both look at you.

‘I’m going to find us some menus,’ Sarah says. ‘Would you like another drink?’

‘I’m fine, for now,’ you say. ‘Want me to come with you?’

‘No, I’ll manage.’

You watch her as she walks across to the bar.

‘You know, I can’t help feeling we’ve met before,’ Sophie says to him, drawing his attention back to the present.

‘I don’t think so,’ you say, and smile. ‘I’m sure I would remember you.’

‘I’m good with faces,’ Sophie says. She returns the smile but it’s not quite made it up to her eyes. ‘You’ve been abroad all these years?’

It feels as if she is trying to catch you out.

‘Pretty much.’

Sophie half-turns to follow your glance to where Sarah is leaning over, trying to attract the attention of the landlady who is flitting between the lounge and the bar. ‘I’d better go and give her a hand,’ she says.

She had been about to say something else, and she’d checked herself. This Sophie has her guard up with you. She is opaque, frosted; maybe you will have the chance to work on that, while you’re here. You suspect it would be worth your while.

Meanwhile, Sarah is not like that at all. You can’t stop looking at her. She glances up and sees you watching, and for a moment you’ve caught her, and you can see right inside.

Sarah goes around to the other side of the bar, where it’s quieter, to ask for some menus. They hadn’t planned to have dinner, but it turns out that nobody has eaten and they’re all hungry, so Sophie and George have collared two tables that don’t have a
reserved
sign on them. What they really want is chips. This is the equivalent of slumming it, for them.

Sarah is glad of the moment away from them, a chance to breathe, to clear her head. She wishes Aiden hadn’t offered to drive. She has had two glasses of wine and actually she’d rather not have any more; she wants to be focused, wants to choose her words carefully, wants to not make a fool of herself.

Something makes her look round, and Aiden is watching her. He doesn’t look away.

‘Sarah?’

She turns quickly and before she has fully registered who it is – bright, intense blue eyes, a beard, rough brown curls cut short – he has pulled her into a bear hug. A proper, breath-stealing squeeze.

‘I thought it was you. How are you?’

‘Will!’ she says, having in that precise moment found her voice again, ‘I’m fine, thank you. How are you?’

Will Brewer – of all the people to see here! She thinks for a moment about the last time she saw him. Louis’s twenty-first birthday party… And then Louis had moved out; she hadn’t seen Will since.

And now? Here he is. He seems ridiculously pleased to see her, his grin wide, showing impossibly white, even teeth. ‘I’m great,’ he says. ‘Great. God, it’s good to see you.’

‘So,’ Sarah ventures, her heart still bumping at the shock of seeing him again, ‘have you been away?’

‘I’ve been working abroad,’ he says, still smiling. ‘America, India… I’ve just got back from Cambodia.’

‘That sounds really exciting,’ she says, thinking,
He’s not very tanned.

‘Aye, it is. I’ve had an amazing time. Weird to be back, to be honest.’

‘So what are your plans?’

‘Ah, just catching up with everybody. It’s been ages. How’s Louis doing? I’ll have to see if he wants to come out for a beer.’

‘Well,’ Sarah says, ‘you should give him a call.’

When Louis was doing his A-levels Will had always been around; they’d go drinking together, went travelling in Europe one summer. The summer after Jim’s accident he’d even lived with them for a bit and Sarah had been grateful for it, because by then Louis had started withdrawing into himself, somewhere she couldn’t reach. Will always seemed so calm, so thoughtful; she thought he was good for Louis. Someone to listen to him, if he wanted to talk.

Sarah feels another sudden lurch of emotion at the thought of her son, who hasn’t spoken to her since Christmas and then only because he was forced to. And, before that, months without any contact at all.

At that moment, when she and Will are staring at each other and smiling, and Sarah is thinking about Louis, and his twenty-first birthday, Sophie appears at her shoulder.

‘I need another drink. George is being a twat.’

‘Soph,’ Sarah says, ‘do you remember Will?’

It’s quite funny, she thinks, to see it happen in front of her eyes like this. Will’s gaze moves from Sarah’s face to Sophie’s,
like a train switching to another track. And Sophie, who had been pulling a face, reacting to whatever crap George has just come out with, visibly straightens and beams.

‘Hello, Will,’ she purrs, offering him her hand.

‘Will is Lorraine and Bill’s son. Remember? He’s friends with Louis.’

‘Of course,’ she says, ‘how are you?’

Sophie doesn’t remember him. Lorraine and Bill aren’t really Sophie’s type of people: Bill is a mechanic, used to own the garage up the road in Holme, and Lorraine was once Sarah’s cleaner, back when she was really busy and didn’t have time to do anything but work. She watches as Will tells Sophie where he’s been, sees the way her eyes light up.

He’s just a boy,
she thinks,
but he’s not, any more, is he? And he’s good-looking, too.

Sarah leaves them to it. The fact that Will is talking to Sophie, and not to her, is something of a relief.

You have spent the past twenty minutes discussing cricket with someone called Ian, who is married to Diana, who seems to lead a hectic life consisting of baking, the library and the church. They’re not religious, though, as they’ve both made a point of saying. They like the church because it’s a place that everyone can get together. You don’t have to believe in God to go. In fact it’s probably easier if you don’t.

The evening has been both more informative and more entertaining than you were expecting. You always like meeting groups of people who know each other. It’s intriguing, as an outsider, to be able to observe them and see all those things most people miss. The glances, the body language, the rise and fall of the conversation. At first sight, this lot seem entirely at ease with themselves and their environment: a happy group of friends who’ve known each other years. They think you can’t see beneath the smiles and the pink cheeks and the in-jokes to where all their resentments and disappointment swell and fester, but you can. You don’t know the nature of them yet, and most of them probably aren’t very interesting anyway, but that won’t stop you finding out.

You’re not in any hurry. Already you can feel yourself fitting in, nestling into the gaps they leave.

Becca and Daniel, inseparable, finishing each other’s sentences, are a bit annoying, but the rest of them are fine. Ian seems all right, with his never-ending tales of sporting glories. But then, when you sat down, you noticed that Ian
chose to sit as far away from Diana as he could, and that she has noticed the same thing and has not spoken at all since. She is smiling at a story Becca is telling about the local amateur dramatics society, but she is holding herself stiffly, as if she’s forgotten what to do with her limbs and doesn’t want to get it wrong. Ian has ignored this and carried on talking about the test match. Is he really that callous, or is he just an idiot?

And Sarah’s best friend – Sophie – is a different story. She’s undeniably attractive, with a lithe grace that makes you think she might have been a model once, or a dancer – and yet she is reserved. Holding back. She doesn’t trust you. She is sizing you up, watching you through sleepy, cat-like eyes. You wonder what she thinks of you so far. You have been, of course, on your absolute best behaviour, but that might not make a difference, especially if the look she’s giving you means what you think it does.

She has spent a long time at the bar, but now she is back with another two bottles of wine. She holds out a glass for you, not for the first time, but you stop her.

‘Driving,’ you say. Again.

Her eyes are bright, her cheeks flushed. Something has happened.

‘I ordered chips and cheesy chips, and olives and bread,’ she announces to the table, then she sits down next to you. ‘So, Aiden. Tell me how you and Sarah met?’

You look at Sarah and for a moment your eyes lock. She looks away first. ‘Aiden was friends with Jim,’ she says. ‘We all met at uni. More than twenty years ago.’

Interesting, you think, that Sarah chose to answer the question that Sophie directed at you.

‘I seem to remember telling Jim he should steer clear of you,’ you say, smiling.

Sarah laughs, which is a relief.

‘Doesn’t sound as though you were much of a friend,’ Sophie comments.

‘It wasn’t that. I could see he was besotted with her. I just knew I was in danger of losing my best mate, that was all. Of course, Sarah just ended coming out with the two of us all the time, poor thing.’

‘Did you manage to control your jealousy?’ Sophie asks.

Her question is loaded in every possible way. You give the only answer it’s possible to give that retains a grain of truth. ‘I had nothing to be jealous of.’

Sophie glances at Sarah and her grin is one of self-satisfaction. It feels as though you’ve given something away without realising it. She is going to try and stir things up, you can feel it. You are going to have to watch her closely, or try to get on her good side. You could do this, of course. You haven’t spoken to George other than that brief introduction, but from the way he’s behaving you already know she would stray if she could.

Her type always do.

An hour later, the piece of bread Sarah has eaten has done little to soak up the wine she has consumed and she realises, almost with surprise, that she is drunk. She has been listening to George tell the story of the MP who had asked him whether he could claim expenses for his four-berth racing yacht on the grounds that his constituency included three inhabited islands.

Everyone has heard this story, apart from Aiden, who isn’t listening.

He is resting his hand palm upwards on her knee, under the table, and she has her fingers curled around his. When did that happen? How long has she been holding his hand? Almost as if he senses her awareness, he gives it a little squeeze and withdraws.

Immediately she feels as if she might have imagined it.

She glances up at him. He is laughing at George, but as she watches he looks across the table to where Sophie is sitting. She follows his gaze unsteadily. Sophie is talking to Will Brewer, who is perched on a low stool, his legs spread, elbows on his knees, all his attention focused on Sophie. She says something and he laughs, sits back, rubs his thumb over his eyebrow. He can’t take his eyes off her.

George, thankfully, seems oblivious to it. Not that it should matter, given his history. This time last year, George admitted to a two-year affair with a former model he met at a charity fundraiser. Sophie knows this to be not the only time
he has strayed, although it was the first time he admitted it. Just before Christmas, Sophie voiced concern that George was at it again. Nothing has been proven, or admitted. And it’s not as if she would do anything with the information anyway, since she has set a precedent of forgiveness and turning a blind eye.

Sarah thinks Sophie deserves better.

She looks back at Aiden. ‘Would you mind if we headed back soon?’ she asks.

When she gets up to say goodbye to Sophie, Sarah stumbles slightly, corrects herself with a hand on the back of George’s chair.

‘Come here,’ Sophie says, wrapping her in a hug. ‘I’m so glad you came.’

‘Me too. Thank you for asking me.’

Over Sophie’s shoulder, she can see Will waiting for her to let Sophie go again. She closes her eyes. ‘I’m drunk,’ she says.

‘Be careful,’ Sophie murmurs.

‘I will. Don’t worry. Aiden’s driving.’

‘I know,’ she says. ‘That’s not what I meant.’