Chloe’s mind was hastily replaying scenes from the past, re-evaluating them in the light of the last few days and hating what she saw there afresh.
They’d met on the underground during that strange time during Christmas and New Year when everyone seemed to move in a dream, suspended in the twilight of the year, waiting for the turn of the calendar. She had come back from the Lake District early, thankful for the excuse that she had to go into work to finish some case notes, and had perched on one of the uncomfortable metal seats at Holborn to read while she waited, the platform thronged with red-nosed people, wool scarves wound tightly around necks, everyone desperate to jump on a train and make their way home. Chloe had gone past the point of jostling with other people and standing staring at sweaty foreheads, struggling to find a hand-hold to steady herself. She preferred to wait until there was a comfortable amount of space, and always walked to the ends of platforms, knowing the carriages were emptier there. Then, that day, Alex had come up to her.
‘Excuse me?’
She’d looked up to see an attractive man with wavy brown hair and a slight frown watching her.
He paused for a moment, seeming to release a frosty breath, looking at her curiously, then asked, ‘May I sit down?’
‘Of course.’ She moved slightly, not that it was necessary as there was plenty of space. She wondered where he was from – not London if he felt the need to ask to sit; when you travelled the tube every day such politeness disappeared quickly.
He sat down, and she tried to resume her book, though she was still aware of him next to her. She felt like she should say something, but didn’t know what, then he’d got there before her.
‘Good, isn’t it,’ he’d said to her. ‘I could hardly put it down.’
She’d looked up from her book. She was reading One Hundred Years of Solitude, and every time she took the book from her bag she grimaced at the irony of the title. She was so busy with caseloads she barely went out any more. Startled, she said, ‘Yes, it’s a beautiful book.’ She looked down at the cover, then at the packed platform, just as someone trod on her toes in their effort to find a pocket of space in which to wait. She winced, and added, ‘Sometimes one hundred years of seclusion sounds quite tempting.’
He’d laughed. ‘Indeed. Well, don’t let me stop you!’ He’d gestured to the open pages.
So Chloe had turned back to the book, but had failed to read another sentence, now acutely aware of him perched next to her. Although she was no longer looking at his face, it had imprinted itself on her mind – his laughing brown eyes, and the kind smile.
Each time a train came they’d both leapt up. Each time they were at the back of a queue of people, who all pushed and fought their way on. Each time the doors closed before they could make it on themselves she had felt relief that they were both still there.
The first few times they didn’t acknowledge one another. But as they sat back down for the fourth time, they finally caught each other’s eyes, and laughed.
‘I hate fighting my way on when it’s packed,’ Alex said. ‘Do you fancy getting a coffee while it thins out a bit?’
He’d asked it in a leisurely manner – too leisurely really; Chloe could hear the nervousness in his voice. The last thing she’d wanted at the time was a man in her life: not only was she always manically busy at work, but she was having a lot of fun with her girlfriends and enjoying the freedom of it all. Yet Alex had a smile that drew you to him, and she found herself saying yes, and not only going to a coffee house but to a restaurant and then a wine bar, before finally heading home as the first wisps of midnight snow floated around her, with a smile on her face and the faint impression of a first kiss still hovering on her lips.
He had phoned her often from that point – not too much or too little, but enough to make sure she knew he was keen. And she responded in kind, loving the laughter that seemed to come easily when they were together; their enjoyment of simple things, such as a walk in the park; feeling that she didn’t need to be something other than herself to make an impression on him – that he saw past suits and makeup and job titles and salary, straight into the core of her.
As Chloe lay awake, she wondered whether she had ever seen into the core of him, or if she had been so wrapped up in being appreciated herself that she had forgotten to look properly at Alex, to see if she could penetrate his own outer shell and glimpse his heart. She thought she had, but now…
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and crept quietly downstairs. In the kitchen the table was covered with newspapers, coins, a Blockbuster card… and Alex’s mobile phone.
She snuck over to it, feeling like a criminal. They had never felt the need to check each other’s texts or emails, or open each other’s post. They voluntarily shared all the details of their lives without the other having to go over them beforehand.
However, all that had changed in the past few days, Chloe thought grimly. And it had not been of her doing.
She pressed the tiny buttons and the screen lit up. As she went to text messages and scrolled through, she breathed a sigh of relief. There was nothing in there apart from various short messages from friends – mostly about football. There were no hidden love-notes or secret expressions of rediscovered longing.
Yet she still couldn’t stop. She went into the phone book stored on the SIM and scrolled through the numbers. There was nothing in J except for ‘Jamie’ – Alex’s brother.
Her mind was already beginning to succumb to tiredness, soothed by the knowledge that her fears were unfounded. The buttons bleeped quietly under her fingers as she tried to get back to the screensaver picture of her and Alex. She found herself looking at his call log, and quickly scanned the numbers. Apart from calls to her, most were to clients, and there were a couple to Jamie. But there was one number that stood out. It was not converted from digits to a name, therefore obviously not a regular contact. He’d called it less than twenty-four hours ago.
Chloe’s heart fluttered as she stared at it. There was something familiar about it. She checked her own phone, and moments later, knew who it was.
Mark.
Why on earth was Alex calling Mark?
She flung the phone back onto the table, hating it for reaffirming her fears, and crept up to bed, rubbing her stomach gently. She opened the bedroom door as quietly as she could. It gave a tiny wail as it was pushed aside, then another one as she held the handle firmly and re-latched it.
Chloe tiptoed towards the bed, guided by the light of the streetlamp outside, and looked at Alex’s still form, then his face, to check she wasn’t disturbing him. She found his eyes – coal-dark in the dim light, but wide open, staring at her. She jumped slightly and took a quick breath, blinked and refocused. Now his eyes were shut and his breathing seemed even. She shook her head, wondering if she’d imagined it after all. But her heart was racing.
17
Mark was in the office early, keen to get a headstart on work this week, but his thoughts kept returning to his dad. He wondered if his father were still snoring his unshaven head off in Mark’s bed. By the time Mark had finished his dinner last night, Henry had shown no sign of moving. Mark had watched him for a while from his chair, and the longer he stared at the inert form, the more irritated he felt. Eventually he’d got up and given Henry a sharp poke in the ribs, which seemed to have no effect on his consciousness, but did cause him to curl up into a foetal ball.
At the movement, Mark had decided he’d had enough. He’d yanked hard on Henry’s arm, bending at the knees, his muscles straining as he pulled with all his strength to get his dad’s arm around his shoulder and heave him up into a sitting position. ‘Come on, Dad,’ he yelled. ‘For fuck’s sake.’