Someone Like You (11 page)

‘I doubt it.’ Hannah wasn’t as confident. She hated disruptions to her routine. The bus was supposed to be back in Aswan at seven thirty in time for dinner at eight. They’d been stopped for at least, she checked her watch, twenty minutes, which meant they’d be late. Shit. She hated being late, hated disorder in her very ordered life. She could feel her pulse increase as the tension got to her. Beads of perspiration that had nothing to do with the heat broke out on her skin. Her nerve ends tingled in that familiar, agitated way. Calm down, Hannah, she commanded herself.

If you’re late, so what? There’s nothing you can do about it and everyone else will be late too. It had been ages since she’d had a panic attack, she couldn’t be getting one now.

Flora clambered up the steps into the bus. ‘We’ll all have to get off, I’m afraid,’ she said, still looking calm in the face of mutinous passengers. ‘I’ve phoned the bus company and they’ll have another bus here in an hour and a half. I know it’s a long time, but it’s coming from Wadi al-Sabu which is halfway between here and Aswan. Hassan says there’s a lovely little restaurant in the town and I’ll buy us all dinner there as we’re going to be late back to the boat.’

A rush of angry mutterings greeted her words from the front of the bus, while the people at the back seemed more resigned to the news.

‘I’m starving,’ Leonie said. ‘Let’s find this place quickly.’

She looked around and realized that Hannah looked strangely put out. Which was unusual because Hannah was always so relaxed, so sure of herself. Hannah never appeared to worry about what to wear, what to eat or what people thought of her. Now she looked as taut as a tug-of-war rope at the news that they’d be delayed by a few hours.

Leonie wasn’t sure what to say to calm Hannah down but Emma said it for her, Emma, who was used to people getting anxious over delays.

‘There’s nothing we can do, Hannah,’ Emma said in firm tones they’d never heard her use before. ‘We’re stuck, we may as well make the best of it. We’ll be home eventually, so let’s not panic. Food will do us good.’

‘I know,’ Hannah agreed, taking as deep a breath as she could. ‘I hate delays, I’m so impatient. Hanging around for any length of time stresses me out.’ She followed Emma obediently off the bus while Leonie went last, forever amazed at people and the chameleon changes they could make. It was a mystery to her that quiet, nervous little Emma could suddenly become the cool, calm one, while Hannah became a wreck. Talk about role reversal.

As the group straggled up the town, people watched them; adorable dark-eyed children giggled and pointed at the foreigners, laughing at Emma’s bare legs and her pale skin. Proud-faced men in Arab dress looked darkly at Leonie, resplendent in flowing white silk, her golden hair tumbling wildly around her shoulders, her mouth a vivid crimson slash. With her golden cartouche and several strings of vibrant beads she’d bought locally wound around her neck, she looked utterly exotic in this dusty desert town where the dominant colour was beige.

‘Your husband is lucky fellow,’ smiled one local man admiringly before proffering some postcards of Abu Simbel.

Leonie tried not to grin but she couldn’t stop the corners of her mouth turning up slightly. For once, she was the one getting all the attention. ‘Thank you but no thank you,’ she said primly and grabbed Emma’s arm the way the guide book had warned single women should do to avoid harassment.

‘I won’t let anyone run away with you,’ teased Emma, watching the men watching Leonie. ‘You’re the big hit around here, and no mistake.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ Leonie said, immeasurably flattered and trying not to show it. ‘I’m a mother of three who wears support tights, hardly a siren.’ But she couldn’t help feeling a little bit siren-ish. People - well, men - were looking at her. Not at Hannah with her cool elegance or at Emma with the milky-white skin and long, coltish grace.

It was the same in the restaurant: a large cool place with rough bench seating and faded cushions, it was staffed by three waiters who were obviously delighted to see a flamboyantly blonde, female tourist.

Flora, with her clipboard and mobile phone, was ignored as the men stared at Leonie appreciatively, treating her like a movie star.

‘Pretend you’re Madonna,’ suggested Hannah, her mood improving. It was ridiculous to get uptight because the bus had broken down. She really must learn to snap out of these moods.

Emma started singing ‘Like a Virgin’ as the three of them were escorted to their table, a large one in a spacious corner with much softer, more opulent-looking cushions than the rest and an elaborate candelabra.

Leonie, who couldn’t sing to save her life, joined in tunelessly, her voice wavering on the long drawn-out notes.

She stopped long enough for the oldest waiter to usher her to the best seat, bowing formally as he did so. She bestowed a gracious smile on him and gave him a blast of sapphire eyes. He bowed even lower and hurried off, to return with three fragile painted glasses for them.

‘More Ribena,’ said Hannah, picking up her tiny glass and breathing in the scent of the non-alcoholic fruit drink they’d got used to on the boat.

‘I don’t need to tell you ladies to enjoy yourselves,’ Flora said, arriving at their table when everyone else was settled.

‘Just don’t forget you have to buy any alcoholic drink yourselves and the bus will be here at around eight.’

‘Leave?’ said Leonie in mock horror. ‘Flora, I may never leave this place.’

Although most local restaurants didn’t serve alcohol, when Leonie saw one of the waiters emerge from the back with a bottle of red wine, she said they must order one.

‘Now, let’s have a real girlie chat,’ she said happily when the first course of mezes had arrived and they each had a glass of Cru des Piolemees.

By the main course - kofta lamb for Emma and Hannah, vegetarian hummus and kebabs for Leonie - they’d gone through men in general and were on to Hannah’s story of Harry. It had been quite a relief to tell someone about how devastated she’d been the day he’d announced that he was travelling round South America and that it was all over.

‘You think you know someone and then they drop a bombshell like that.’ Even a year later, talking about it hurt. She’d felt so betrayed, so abandoned. All the love and time and hope she’d invested in their relationship, and to have it all thrown back at her because he felt stifled and needed a break. He was like all men: feckless and uncaring.

But she’d loved him so much. All the aerobics classes in the world couldn’t dim the pain of that. At least her new plan to steer clear of men - apart from the odd bit of fun with guys like Jeff - would protect her from having her heart broken again. It just wasn’t worth it.

‘What is he doing in South America?’ asked Leonie.

‘I don’t know and I don’t care,’ Hannah said fiercely. ‘I haven’t heard from him since he left. Not a dickybird.

He took all his stuff from the flat when I wasn’t there and left a note asking for letters to be forwarded to his sister.

Huh! He had two chances of me doing that. I threw his new chequebook in the bin when it arrived, and all his tax forms.’ She grinned at the memory. ‘Then I kept getting phone calls from his boss at the paper because he was supposed to be writing this book for them on political scandals and he’d just left the country without telling them.

That was Harry all over: run away instead of face the music,’ she said bitterly.

Both Leonie and Emma had been gratifyingly eager to castrate Harry if they ever slapped eyes on him, and Hannah found herself thinking how nice it was to have female friends to confide in again. She’d been too hurt by Harry to seek out all the female friends she’d let go by the wayside when she fell for him first. It was comforting now to have a bit of sisterly outrage and support.

‘I doubt I’ll ever trust a man ever again,’ she admitted slowly. ‘I shouldn’t have trusted Harry in the first place. I should have known.’

‘How could you?’ Emma asked. ‘You’re not a mind reader.’

‘It’s nothing to do with mind-reading. It’s to do with men. They can’t be trusted, full stop,’ Hannah insisted.

‘Well, I can’t trust the men I meet, anyway. Your Pete sounds lovely, but I think some of us just aren’t cut out for relationships. They mess you up. Some women are better off on their own and that’s the sort of woman I am.

I can take care of myself and I don’t need anyone else.

That’s my plan.’

‘You don’t mean that,’ Leonie argued. ‘You’re beautiful, Hannah, you could have any man you want. You simply ended up with a guy who was weak and left you. That’s no reason to give up on men in general. You have to dust yourself off when it all goes wrong and start again.’

By dessert - fruit for all of them - they’d moved on to their personal theories on how to get over a man. Emma hadn’t had many boyfriends before Pete, so she pointed out that she wasn’t much of an expert. ‘I met Pete when I was twenty-five and I’d only been out with three men before that. Dad ran the last one off the premises when he arrived smoking a roll-up cigarette. Said he didn’t want me corrupted with drugs.’

They all laughed at that.

Leonie admitted that Ray had been her first real boy friend and that their split had been mutual, more or less, so she hadn’t needed to dust herself off. What Leonie couldn’t understand was how Hannah had decided to simply give up falling in love until she felt strong enough to cope with men on her own terms. They’d heard about the fabulous Jeff and how Hannah had decided that a post-Harry bonk would be good therapy.

‘How can you do that?’ asked Leonie, fascinated.

‘Do what?’ Hannah bit into a piece of watermelon, little squelches of juice slithering down her chin.

‘Decide that you won’t get involved with any guy but just treat him like a friend who happens to be a lover. I mean, what if you met someone gorgeous and you couldn’t help yourself and fell hopelessly in love?’

Leonie wanted to believe that someone gorgeous was always waiting around the corner, that it was a matter of kismet, destiny and the right Daily Mail horoscope when it happened. You’d fall in love, it was inevitable. Hannah wasn’t convinced.

‘Feeling terrible for months after Harry left, that’s how I can do it,’ she said. ‘After the pain I went through, I’m not about to go through it again. If I turn into a heartless cow who uses men, I don’t care. That happy, coupley love thing is not for me. I spent years doing that and where did it get me?’ she demanded. ‘Bloody nowhere. Harry upped and left when it suited him and all I had for ten years of love and affection was a huge spare tyre and a dead-end career. Men are a waste of space, apart from for rumpypumpy in the bedroom department.’

Emma broke out laughing at the pair of them. They were a howl. She loved sitting with her feet curled up on the cushioned bench, giggling and talking about men and sex.

She shifted to get more comfortable and felt a familiar ache ripple through her. An ache that turned swiftly from a distant pain into a hard one, gnawing at her insides. Her period. God, no, she shrieked silently. It couldn’t be. She was pregnant, she was sure of it.

Emma stared at the others in dread, hoping they’d developed a similar pain, something to do with the lamb or a dodgy shrimp or anything … It rippled through her again. An unmistakable pain, the sort teenage girls who’d just had their first period could never adequately explain to their non-menstruating friends. Once felt, it was never forgotten.

Her period. There was no baby, Emma realized. There never had been. Probably never would be. Grief hit her in a wave.

She pushed herself away from the table clumsily, dropping her napkin and spilling what was left of her single glass of wine. ‘Must go to the loo,’ she said shakily.

In the dusty toilet with no lock on the door, Emma’s fears were confirmed. She was numb as she looked at the tell-tale droplets of red in the toilet bowl. Using a wad of loo roll as a makeshift sanitary towel, she walked slowly back to the table, feeling lifeless and drained.

One look at Emma’s white face and Leonie and Hannah knew something was wrong.

‘Are you sick?’ Hannah asked in concern.

‘Was it something you’ve eaten?’ said Leonie.

Emma shook her head dazedly.

‘It’s my period,’ she said simply. ‘I thought I was pregnant, I was sure I was and now …’ her voice broke as she started to cry, ‘I’m not.’

She sank into her seat beside Leonie, who immediately flung an arm round her. ‘You poor, poor thing,’ Leonie crooned in the same soft voice she used when the children were sick or upset.

As Emma cried, great heaving sobs that shook her entire fragile body, Leonie was shocked at how thin she was under her T-shirt: not elegantly slim, the way Leonie longed to be. But bony, almost skeletally thin, her ribs sticking out like rack of lamb.

‘You poor darling. I know it’s awful, but you’re so young, you’ve years ahead of you, Emma,’ Leonie soothed, hoping it was the right thing to say. ‘Lots of couples take months to conceive.’

‘But we’ve been trying for three years,’ Emma said between giant hiccuping sobs. ‘Three years and nothing. I know it’s me and I don’t know what I’ll do if I can’t have a baby. What’s wrong with me? Why am I different? You have children, why can’t I?’

Leonie and Hannah’s eyes met over the table. There was nothing they could say. They’d both read of women tortured by their inability to have a child: neither of them had ever met anyone in that appalling position. Or, if they had, the women in question had obviously kept it a secret.

Leonie dredged her memory for information on infertility.

Hadn’t she read something about couples who finally had babies when they stopped trying so frantically and relaxed?

And Emma being so thin couldn’t help. The poor girl was literally wasting away with nerves and strain: she didn’t have a hope of getting pregnant while she was like that.

‘The stress of wanting a baby so badly may be affecting you,’ Leonie said finally. ‘You know, some people make themselves ill because they want it so much and then, once they take a step backwards, they get pregnant.’ It sounded so lame the way she’d said it, like telling a fairy story about Santa Claus to a knowing and deeply suspicious ten-year-old.