Vintage Babes (40 page)

Returning home without a baby and needing to explain to two-year-old Lynn that she wasn’t having a brother or a sister after all, was grim. For us, though not for her. We’d bought her a Tiny Tears doll to soften the blow and she went cheerfully off to play with it. Coping with the sympathy of friends and neighbours was grim, too.

But the full impact of the grief didn’t hit me until after the funeral and then I became scared, so scared. Nothing felt safe any more and it seemed as if Lynn or Tom or I might be struck down and die at any moment. That the world was awash with tragedy and lurking danger. Everyone – my parents, my friends and, in particular, Jenny, was so kind and understanding. But, in what seemed a cruelly short time, the letters of condolence dried up, people talked of other things and the usual routine resumed. Tom threw himself back into his career. He had always been ultra ambitious.

I continued to grieve. It didn’t help that my body reacted as if I had given birth to a living child; my breasts swelled with untapped milk and my stomach took months to shrink back.

‘It could’ve been my fault,’ I can remember saying to Jenny. ‘I stopped smoking as soon as I realised I might be pregnant, but –’

‘It was not your fault,’ she had insisted. ‘The doctor said they couldn’t find out what had gone wrong, but it had nothing to do with anything you did.’

‘At one stage, I had a fad for pickled beetroot. Maybe the acid in the vinegar poisoned him.’

‘Carol, it was bad luck. Pure and simple. And if you try again, all will be well,’ Jenny had said, full of compassion.

But when I had raised the idea of us trying again, Tom was reluctant. Indeed, whenever I tried to speak to him about the baby, he was reluctant. He didn’t like talking about our son. He concealed his pain. I couldn’t. For a long time afterwards, the little white coffin would appear in my mind’s eye and I would break down and sob.

Michael was buried in a churchyard in Sale and every year when I drive up to Scotland to visit my brother, I call in and put flowers on his grave. All these years on, I still mourn his loss and feel that my family never was, and never will be, properly complete.

But by suggesting we meet today, Tom had shown that although, after the first trauma of his death, he had rarely mentioned him, our son lives on in his memory.

Situated on a smart Knightsbridge street, the restaurant had a polished grey marble floor, steel-panelled walls and was space-rocket sharp. Square glass tables, set discreetly apart, were lit by stainless steel lamps which hung on long poles from the ceiling, while, at the rear, chefs worked busily behind a steel and glass counter. The décor had won many accolades and the restaurant was renowned for its ‘outstanding Lot Valley cooking and wines of quality’, so Tom had been quick to inform me. From what I had sampled so far, I agreed. Everything had been superb. Tom was a regular customer and, judging by the warm welcome he had received from the waiters in their long white aprons, also a generous tipper. The table we had been given, in a prime position looking onto the street and in a separate, steel-barricaded booth, indicated his standing, too.

‘Kathryn didn’t mind you taking me out to dinner?’ I asked, as we paused between the main course and the pudding.

So far, our conversation had centred on Lynn and Justin’s wedding. I had explained that they had been able to arrange the church service on the day they had desired, but were now looking for somewhere to hold the reception. This was proving difficult as all the popular places around Dursleigh appeared to have been booked up at least a year in advance.

‘Kathryn doesn’t know,’ he replied.

‘Why not? You mean you didn’t tell her?’

‘No. She thinks I’m off on a business trip.’

I looked at him in confusion. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Carol, you and I should never’ve been divorced. I only went along with it because Kathryn was pregnant and I’m damn sure she got pregnant on purpose.’

‘It takes two,’ I pointed out.

‘Yes, but –’ Tom realigned his dessert spoon and fork. He looked serious. ‘The reason I suggested we meet tonight is because –’

‘I know why.’

His brows shot up in surprise. ‘You do?’

‘It’s because today is Michael’s birthday.’

‘And which Michael is that? Michael ‘Wacko Jacko’ Jackson, maybe?’ he joked. ‘Michael Portillo? Or how’s about Michelangelo?’

I stared. He did not know whom I was talking about. He hadn’t a clue. The name and the date meant nothing.

‘Michael is Michael Webb, our son,’ I said, my voice hard, though there was a lump in my throat. ‘He was born, and died, on the twenty-seventh of April.’

Tom frowned, twiddled with the stem of his wine glass and then looked up. ‘I’m sorry, I should’ve remembered. But you don’t still think about that baby? Not after so many years?’

‘Yes, I do, though he obviously never crosses your mind.’

That
baby he had called him, not
our
baby. How could he be so detached and uncaring? We were talking about his child, his own flesh and blood.

‘What’d be the point? It was sad, him dying and you going through the pregnancy for no result. But nothing to be gained from –’ He stopped, as if aware of getting himself in a tangle. As if he could’ve been about to casually say there was ‘nothing to be gained from crying over spilt milk’.

‘Have you never wondered what Michael would’ve been like if he’d lived?’ I asked. ‘Haven’t you imagined him growing up?’

‘No.’

Turning my head, I looked out of the window. About half an hour ago it had started to rain. Light at first, the rain had steadily increased until now, as darkness fell, it was pouring down. The pavements were glossy with wet and people holding umbrellas aloft needed to sidestep to avoid puddles. Tom had not concealed his pain. He may have been upset and disappointed at the time, but our son’s death had not had a serious impact. It had not emotionally gutted. For him, Michael was not a part of our family. He had never been a true entity. I watched a car drive by, creating a wash of water from the gutters. I had believed my grief to be a shared grief, albeit hidden, but I had been mourning alone.

I turned back to him. ‘So why did you suggest we dine together this evening?’ I enquired.

‘Because it makes life easier. You see, I’m going away tomorrow, to Brussels to cover an E.U. debate, but I told Kathryn I’d got a meeting there first thing Monday morning, so I had to take a flight tonight.’

I shook my head in bewilderment. I wasn’t following him. ‘Why do that? Why tell her a lie?’

‘Because I’ve booked us a room at a hotel.’

‘What?’

Reaching out a hand, Tom ran his knuckles slowly down my cheek. It was a caress I remembered from the past. A caress which I had regarded as tender and romantic, but which now seemed cynically contrived.

‘Carol, I love you and I want you. When I came to your house the other day and saw you again, I realised that I’ve always loved you. Never stopped. Marrying Kathryn was a big mistake, a complete balls-up.’

I jerked back. ‘And now you expect me to – to spend the night with you? To sleep with you?’

The idea stunned me. It was not something I had anticipated. Not something which would ever have occurred to me. Though, to be honest, there was a time – years – when I would’ve been sorely tempted by the chance to sleep with him; for my own pleasure and to punish Kathryn. But no longer.

Tom smiled. A confident smile which said he knew I would be soft, malleable, eager. ‘Yes.’

‘That’s one hell of a big expectation!’

‘Come on, where’s the harm? It’ll be like the dirty weekend we spent together before we were married when we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. Remember?’

‘I do. But it wouldn’t be anything like it.’

‘Don’t play hard to get, Carol,’ he coaxed. ‘There’s no other man in your life. Never has been, not one serious guy since we split up. And do you know why? Because –’

A waiter appeared beside us. ‘Would you and the lady care to see the dessert menu, sir?’ he enquired.

‘Later.’ Tom flicked him away with an impatient hand. ‘I’ll let you know when.’

‘May I pour you more wine, sir?’

‘We’ll do it ourselves.’

The waiter bowed. ‘Whatever you wish, sir,’ he murmured, and retreated.

‘You haven’t got seriously involved with any other guy, because you know he’d be second best. Because he’s not me,’ Tom pronounced.

I resisted the urge to blow a raspberry. ‘Such modesty.’

‘Carol, we were good together before, brilliant together, and we will be again. We’re a pair, dammit. Nature’s soulmates. Remember how you said you didn’t want Lynn to act rashly and do something she might regret for the rest of her life? You were really talking about yourself, about how you agreed so quickly to us splitting up.’

I shook my head. ‘Not so.’

‘I was a fool, too, the biggest fool, but we all act foolishly at times. However, I’m going to leave Kathryn. As soon as I get back from France, I shall tell her I want a divorce. Then you and I can –’

‘This is ridiculous!’ I burst out. But it was not only ridiculous, his assumption that I would willingly spend the night with him in a hotel was tawdry stuff.

‘Why?’

‘For a start, have you thought about your sons?’

‘What about them?’

‘How they are young and vulnerable, and how they need their father.’

‘I’ll still see them. Still keep in touch.’

‘Seeing them isn’t enough. Keeping in touch would stink!’ I hissed, furious and yet keeping my voice low. Tina might have relished making a scene, but I prefer my private affairs to remain private. ‘You’ve already broken up one family, you can’t break up another.’

‘Believe me, I don’t want to, but –’

‘On the contrary, you’d ditch your wife and your kids, like that!’ I snapped my fingers, though it was not much of a snap. I’ve never learnt the knack. ‘But, flawed as you are, your family needs you. And I would never get involved with a married man.’

He smiled. ‘Not even one you’d once been married to?’

‘Especially not one I had once been married to! One who is a complete and utter bastard with the morals of an alleycat!’

My estimation of Tom had not just plummeted, it had hit rock bottom. His talk of leaving Kathryn and wrecking a second family had been a reality slap. It was hard to believe that someone I had loved and valued for years could be so callous and self-centred, but I was being forced to face the truth.

‘Look, if I’m divorced –’

‘Married or divorced or if the two of us were marooned on a desert island, I would never sleep with you!’

He took another mouthful of wine. ‘You want to be alone for ever? Without a man for the rest of your life? Celibate?’

‘I am not alone. As a matter of fact, this siren is going out with Steve, the editor of
The Siren
,’ I declared, then rose, grasped my bag and marched over to the stainless steel coatstand where I pulled on my jacket. ‘Goodnight.’

‘Madam is leaving?’ enquired the waiter who had arrived, too late, to help me with my jacket.

‘I am. I enjoyed the meal, it’s just the company which is pitiful.’

Tom hurried over. ‘Carol, be reasonable. Let’s sit down and talk,’ he appealed.

‘We have nothing to talk about.’