Out Late with Friends and Regrets (36 page)

“I heard you might be doing a university course.”

“Well, it’s one of many possibilities, but I don’t know if I’ll have time, when it comes down to it.
 
The great thing is that I don’t have to rush into that sort of commitment.
 
I’m too late for this autumn, anyway.”

June wasn’t really interested, of course, it was just conversation.
 
Fin should try some of her own.

“How’s Professor Harney these days? And, I’m so sorry, can I get you a coffee, June? It’s fantastic.”

“Like a bear with a sore head.
 
And no thank you, but I’m pleased to hear it; this place belongs to my brother-in-law. No, I haven’t been seeing Annie for a bit – she got turned down for funding for an expedition she was planning in two years time, and she’s just appalling.
 
I pity the poor students starting with her this term - just don’t get a fancy for an archaeology degree, whatever you do.”

“I have to say that was pretty far down my list of favourites, actually.
 
I’m sorry things are tricky in that department.”

“Oh, I’m not.
 
We’ll get back together eventually, no doubt.
 
Anyway, Fin, would you like to come to a choral concert on Thursday evening?”

The sudden change of direction took her by surprise.

“Er, sorry June, I er, I won’t be back in time, it’s one of my shop days - and I’ve got to admit, I don’t think it’s something I would be all that interested in –”

“Well, I think you’d love it.
 
Look, here’s my number,” she said, as she fished in her bag and brought out a card. “Call me if you change your mind.”

As she slipped off the stool, June drew the tips of her nails sideways down Fin’s back, a fine dotted line of sensation which transferred through her shirt to her back.
 
June would be a fantastic lover.
 
But no, no way.

“Goodbye for now, then.”

An embrace, two kisses, a confidential smile.

She thinks she’s got me.

“’Bye, June.
 
Nice seeing you.
 
Goodbye.”

The last whisper of Mitsouko hung in the air for several seconds, and then evaporated.

“Hi, Mum!”

“Anna!”

“So you’re in, that’s good.
 
Just thought I’d ring to say hi and congratulations.
 
I’ll be up at half-term to visit and check it out.”

Fin was ridiculously pleased to hear the sound of her daughter’s voice.
 
Occasionally Anna e-mailed, and she texted once in a while, but she rarely rang.

“Well, it’s very modest, not spread out like the cottage.
 
I haven’t even got a bed yet.
 
But I’d love to see you.
 
Will you be bringing anybody?”

Anna had brought a boyfriend the first time she’d visited the cottage, and a friend the only other time, as her love life had been lying fallow.
 
That way she’d ensured the past could remain gagged and bound.

“Oh, Denny’s gone.
 
Thinks he can make it in Hollywood, the idiot.
 
I was getting fed up with his posturing and his sickening ego.”

“But you’re OK?”

“God, yes.
 
I’m going round with this poetry freak called Moses, he’s a lovely guy but nothing serious, he’s a year behind us lot, but he knows “Othello” backwards- ”

“That’ll be the latest modern interpretation, I take it?”

“What? Oh,
Mum
...”

It was good to hear her laugh.
  
And if she did visit on her own, Fin would have to tell her.
 
E-mail wouldn’t do, much less text.
 
And the phone was too trivial, somehow, designed for chat, not talk.

She wondered if telling her daughter that she had become (or was “become aware of being” more accurate?) a lesbian would finally eat away the remainder of the frayed cord between them.
 
Heavy thought.
 
Fin suddenly felt a hunger to see Anna, her eyes lit with fun rather than guarded, her smile uncalculated, her youthful chutzpah and sassiness giving the mass of soft brown hair a life of its own.
 
The lovely young woman she had become since leaving home, in fact.

“How’s Auntie Janet?” asked Fin.

There was news of Auntie, of living in London, of productions the school had coming up and parts Anna might go for; hopes, dreams.
 
She sounded so optimistic and happy.

“Gotta go, Mum, the battery low thing has started flashing,” said Anna.

“OK, darling.
 
It would be fantastic if you could come up.”

It would be good, to introduce her to Ellie, to some of the other people she had met in Harford.
 
It could be a new phase.
 
Perhaps Fin could start looking at one of her children at least without the gut-gnawing acid of regret flooding her system.
 
Would you do anything differently if you had your time over again, Fiona Hay?
 
Oh, you bet.

At Harfordleisure she was inducted into the mysteries of all the gym equipment before being let loose on it.
 
Funny how gym staff always referred to their machinery as “State of the Art”. She had often heard the Cantlesham workhorses so described to new clients by their stable boys, despite the frequent appendage thereon of “Out of Order” notices.
 
Harfordleisure’s high-spec pieces were rather more deserving of the term, and Fin booked an interview with a coach who would devise a fitness programme tailored to her requirements.
 
Meanwhile, she would give the treadmill a decent pounding for half an hour.
 
If nothing else she wanted to improve her stamina, so if there were ever another chance she could catch up with the figure in the hoodie and have enough breath in hand to issue a challenge.
 
Much as the thought terrified her, it was better than being a passive victim.
 
And not knowing who or why – that was awful.

She preferred her own thoughts to the TV screen mounted in front of her, and hadn’t brought her MP3.
 
But there was motivating music on the P.A. and she adjusted her rhythm to it.
 
Despite starting at low level, it wasn’t long before she was panting quite hard.
 
That must be ten minutes gone, or was it?
 
No, in fact it was four and a half.
 
She reduced the pace further to a steady jog.
 
This was humiliating; she had always been a good runner. It must have been the adrenalin keeping her going the other night, and she’d certainly been knackered afterwards.
 
But she badly needed to reclaim the lost ground, before things got any worse.

“Hi!”

“Oh, hello, small world,” shouted Fin, hoping she didn’t sound too out of breath, especially in view of the fact that the belt of the machine next-door-but-one seemed to be rolling at double the speed of her own.

“Regular here?” enquired WPC Boland.

“Just joined.
 
Think it shows...”

“It won’t take long - I’ve only been coming for a few weeks. Surprising how quickly it comes back. ”

“Hope so -
 
officer,” gasped Fin, feeling more foolish by the moment.

“It’s Karen!” replied the girl, laughing, but not unkindly.

Fin now required all her breath for running, determined to last out the full half hour. So she nodded and smiled, imagining how flaming red of cheek and unattractive she must be right now.
 
Perhaps it wouldn’t be quite the place to meet like-minded women after all.
 
It was all very well the place being festooned with good-looking potential friends and partners, but of no benefit whatsoever if she looked like a tired, middle-aged has-been.
 
She had been
good
, at Cantlesham – what had happened?
 
Granny popped into her head, telling her not to rest on her laurels, as she always had when wee Fiona proudly showed off her latest school report.

“Yeah, OK Granny, I get it,” she muttered, under the little breath she still had.

She must have been mad, inviting people to dinner on Sunday when she was hardly unpacked.
 
Ellie would be pleased to come, as would Rachel, but Dave declined, promising to send a biscuity champagne-style white in his place to celebrate Fin’s arrival in Harford. It would have been good to ask Rosemary too and introduce her to them, but it was a bit late by the time she thought of it. Never mind, it would keep for another time. Fin had asked Petra separately for Saturday night, feeling that Ellie might not be at her bawdy best in Petra’s company, but she had declined, saying she had too much to do in the way of repair and maintenance to her newly delivered antique furniture.

“Mildew, all over the original cover and down the legs – I was furious, but that’s what happens, in container storage, I wish I’d paid the extra for one of those places with a controlled environment,” amongst other complaints.
 
Fin was sympathetic, but glad that she could put off the invitation, perhaps indefinitely.
 
She found it hard to believe that she had spent almost an entire night making love to this woman in a fairly unbridled manner.

She had found an ideally-sized table with drop leaves in the shop of one of Hamish’s rivals, in a very much less fashionable part of town than Foibles, and four chairs to go with it.
 
They were of Utility vintage, well-made, serviceable and plain, and extremely cheap.
 
Fin thought she might rub them down and give them a New England treatment at some later stage; if it went wrong there was little enough lost.
 
But now, with a cream cloth and a proper lay of cutlery and glasses, the table looked pretty good.
 
It would be satisfying to thank Ellie and Rachel in this small way for their friendship and support.

Her own support, Messrs. M&S, turned up trumps with the main course, honey-glazed carrots and all, but to precede it she made an easy lentil and vegetable soup with which she felt confident.
 
She ought to come up with at least one home-made course and preferably two; Ellie might not be much of a cook, but Rachel was quite a foodie, so 100% Markies would be a cheat too far.
 
She was sure she had heard a complacently expert TV restaurateur on “Secrets of the Chefs” describe in under thirty seconds a brilliant pudding which would wow the most discerning of guests.
 
Effort required practically zero, outcome virtually guaranteed; just the dish she needed to end the meal with a flourish.
 
Fin struggled to remember the details; typically she hadn’t been paying much attention at the time.
 
It was based on tinned pears and Kirsch – or was it Kir? Paul would have known, and remembered the recipe. He had been a very good cook, when he bothered, whereas to be honest, cooking had never interested her much.
 
All that creative effort, all that arranging of the components, just to have the tangled remains lying gooey, disgusting and unwanted on the plate afterwards.
 
Not an equation that balanced up, in Fin’s book.
 
She had once produced a successful and attractive meal for Paul’s birthday, and had felt compelled to photograph it from three angles.
 
That had been a good day, with much laughter, and Paul swearing there wasn’t another woman in the world he could ever love.

This was different, in that it would be good if everything went well, but she didn’t feel under heavy pressure.
 
In a new spirit of culinary adventurousness she pureed three tins of pears, sloshing in a good quantity of apricot brandy, an unused impulse buy at the supermarket last Christmas.
 
Well, if she wasn’t sure which of two expensive liqueurs to purchase, she might as well use what she had.
 
She stuck the mixture in the freezer compartment, forgetting what the superchef had done with it afterwards, but deciding that some crumbled meringues and crème fraiche would top it off nicely.
 
Well, it would either work or it wouldn’t.
 
Perhaps cooking wasn’t beyond her after all.