‘That’s not why you . . . That’s not why you’ve been ill? The doctor . . . ? ’
Javier stared at me. Don’t you dare , his face said. Don’t you dare.
Jenni watched me, and her eyes began to swim with tears. ‘Why aren’t you saying anything? Why aren’t you answering me?’
I closed my eyes. ‘Jenni,’ I said. ‘Oh God, Jenni, I . . .’
Her hand rose to her mouth. She stared at me in disbelief, and her tears bulged and broke. ‘No, you’re not . . . You couldn’t be pr— Oh Jesus. Sarah.’
Javier wrapped a protective arm around his wife’s shoulders. After a deep breath he looked up at me, and his face wore the first tangible emotion I’d seen in fifteen years: fury.
‘Jenni,’ I said quietly. ‘Listen, darling. When I went to the doctor’s, she said . . . She did some tests, and she said . . . Jenni, I am so sorry . . .’
‘You’re having a baby.’
‘I . . . Yes. I can’t even begin to tell you how sorry I am.’
Into the perfect silence of our table, my phone started ringing.
‘Eddie?’ Jenni whispered, because even when her friend smashed her round the face, she couldn’t give up.
‘I . . . I don’t know. I deleted his number. But it’s a UK mobile.’
‘Take it,’ she said flatly. ‘Just take it. He’s the father of your child, after all.’
As I reached the crowded doorway, phone in hand, it came to me that I should turn round to see Jenni’s face, one last time. One last time before what?
I turned, not fully understanding why, but a barrel-like woman was craning herself into one of the fixed seats and Jenni was obscured.
So I carried on, threading my way through the diners on the outside terrace. I walked through the bikers, the bikes, down towards the highway. I wondered if Jenni would ever get over this. If our friendship would survive.
Wearily, I answered the call.
There was a delay of a few seconds while a voice whizzed through cables deep under the Atlantic.
Then: ‘Sarah?’
‘Yes.’
After a moment the voice said, ‘It’s Hannah.’
‘Hannah?’
‘Yes. Er . . . Hannah Harrington.’
I put out a hand to steady myself, only there was nothing there. So I held on to the phone with both hands, because it was the only solid thing I had.
‘Hannah?’
‘Yes.’
‘My sister Hannah?’
‘Yes.’
A moment’s silence.
‘I appreciate this might be a bit of a shock.’
‘Your voice,’ I whispered. ‘Your voice.’ I held more tightly on to the phone. She started to say something but her voice was drowned out by a salvo of motorbikes swarming into the car park, all fitted out with powerful engines.
‘Sorry?’ I said. ‘What was that? Hannah?’
‘Can you hear me now?’ I heard her say. ‘I’m kind of bellowing . . .’ The bikers, all parked, were now sitting, revving, for no reason. Unreasonable fury rose in my chest. ‘Shut up !’ I shouted. ‘Please, stop it!’
On the other side of the road, a peaceful-looking path led haphazardly towards the distant sea. I have to get across the road , I thought desperately, as vehicles roared along the highway in front of me and motorbikes revved behind. I have to get across the road, right now .
‘Are you still there?’ I heard her say.
‘Yes! Can you hear me?’
‘Just about. What the hell’s going on there?’
I knew what Hannah looked like: Mum and Dad used to send me photos, until it had become too painful for me to see them. It was almost impossible to imagine that the woman from the pictures was the woman talking to me now. The woman with the curly-haired husband, the two children and the dog. My little sister.
‘Look, Hannah, let me cross the road. I’m at a bikers’ cafe; there’s a lot of noise, but it’ll be quiet over there . . .’
‘Are you a biker ?’ There was just a corner of a smile in her voice.
‘No, I’m not. I— Hang on, let me just get across to the other side. Please stay on the line . . .’ There was a gap in the southbound traffic. For no earthly reason, I didn’t turn to check the northbound lane. I just ran. Towards the sea, towards Hannah.
I heard nothing; I saw nothing. Not the deadly lumber of a truck travelling at high speed. Not the screech of brakes, not the panicked yells from the terrace. I didn’t hear my own voice, forced out of me in a guttural scream, then falling sharply into silence, like an ambulance turning its siren off because there was no longer any point, and I didn’t hear the wail that came out of Jenni’s mouth as she pummelled her way out of the restaurant.
I didn’t hear a thing.
PART III
Chapter Forty
Eddie
Dear You,
It’s 3.37 a.m., nearly eighteen hours since I touched down at Heathrow.
Nobody was waiting for me, of course, because the only person who knew I was coming back today was Mum. I feigned indifference as I scanned the sea of welcome cards that didn’t say my name. I whistled a bit of Bowie.
I called Mum on my way to the long-stay car park. For reasons as yet unclear, she seems to have found my absence particularly hard this time. Maybe it was the distance that threw her. It certainly isn’t the first time I’ve gone away for two weeks. Anyway, she told me she’d been up all night worrying about my plane crashing. ‘It’s been awful,’ she told me. ‘I’m so tired I can hardly speak.’ But she must then have made an immediate recovery because she went on to spend ten minutes telling me about the things her sister failed to do in my absence. ‘She still hasn’t taken the recycling away. It’s just sitting there by the front gate! I can’t bear to look out of the window. Eddie, do you think you could pop over on your way home?’
Poor Aunty Margaret.
Mum came close to a panic attack when Margaret tried to take her for her psychiatrist’s appointment apparently, so I’ve got to take her next week. She said she just couldn’t cope with cars, hospitals, people. Not without me. The conversation was ploughed with deep furrows of guilt. Mine, for having just buggered off – even though Mum’s always telling me I’ve got to lead my own life – and hers, because she knows this is what happens when I do.
I picked up the Land Rover and drove back down the M4. Back to Gloucestershire, to Sapperton, to this life. I listened to the radio for a while, because it stopped me thinking about Sarah. I came off at Membury Services for a cheese sandwich.
Then something weird happened as I headed down the Cirencester Road: I didn’t slow down for the Sapperton junction. I didn’t even indicate; I just shot on past. I carried on to the Frampton turn-off, but I didn’t come off there, either. I found myself driving to Minchinhampton Common. I parked at the reservoir and got an ice cream and walked round Amberley, and then dropped into the Black Horse. I had an orange Henry, then sat there for about two hours, just staring across the Woodchester Valley.
I’m not sure what was going on in my head. Everything felt oddly detached, as if I were watching CCTV footage of myself. All I knew was that I couldn’t go to Mum’s.
By this point she’d texted and called me several times, worried I’d crashed on the motorway. So I told her I was fine, had just got held up sorting something out, but that was more because I didn’t know what I was doing than because I was hiding something specific. At about four I was back at Tom Long’s Post, and that’s when it got really worrying, because rather than turning right towards Sapperton, I found myself turning left towards Stroud.
I went for a pint at the Golden Fleece and then popped in on Alan and his wife, Gia. They were lovely. So kind and supportive. Let me share Lily’s tea and told me I’d done the right thing, walking away from Sarah. They had no idea I was hiding from my own mother.
Lily refused to go to bed. She sat on my knee and drew mermaids. Since meeting Sarah, I’ve felt a strange breathlessness when I hang out with Lily, a pressing sadness mingled with the love and affection I feel for my best friend’s little girl. Sarah broke some kind of a seal in me, I think. After years of disregarding the idea, I began to be able to imagine myself with a child of my own. Lily drew an ink mermaid on my hand and I felt a deep trench open up inside me, like a fissure in the ocean floor.