Читать книгу The Other Us: the RONA winning perfect second chance romance to curl up with - Фиона Харпер - Страница 9
ОглавлениеThe house is quiet when I get back. Too quiet. I’ve got used to Sophie being around during the day after her A levels had finished – leaving her lunch plate on the arm of the sofa, the chart songs drifting from her bedroom upstairs, her soft laughter as she watched something on YouTube with her headphones in – but now she’s off backpacking with her friends before uni. Well, when I say backpacking, I mean in the UK. They’re somewhere near Fort William, exploring the Highlands at the moment. I said no to haring all over Europe for two months. She’s only just turned eighteen.
I feel as if I’ve got too much time on my hands now she’s not here. I find myself wandering round the house, looking at the empty spaces, wondering what I should be doing next.
Maybe I should ask for extra hours at work? I have a part-time job in a soft furnishings shop on the High Street. I gave up my career as a graphic designer when Sophie was born. Too many all-nighters to meet deadlines and things like that. It was nice to be here when she got home from school most days, even when she was old enough to take care of herself, and Dan’s money as an English teacher isn’t bad. We might not have had as many foreign holidays as some, but we’ve never gone short.
But when I think of doing full days at the shop my spirit sinks. I like my job, I do. It’s comfortable, like a pair of shoes worn in just right, but up until now I’ve been telling myself it’s just something to keep the money coming in while Sophie needed me. I don’t want it to define me.
I realise I’ve wandered through the hall, into the lounge and I’m standing in front of the mantelpiece. I’m staring at a picture of Sophie taken at her school prom. She looks elegant and happy, her warm-brown hair blown back away from her face by a playful breeze.
My eyes glaze for a second then refocus, and when I do it’s not Sophie I’m looking at in the picture, but myself. How I once was. Full of hope and ambition, optimism and bravado. A sense of loss engulfs me, but whether it’s because of my empty nest or for something deeper and long-standing, I’m not sure.
I go and get my mobile out of my handbag and dial Sophie’s number, even though I suspect she’s halfway up a mountain or in a valley with no coverage.
Much to my surprise, she picks up. ‘Hey, mum! What’s up?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ I say. ‘Just wanted to see if you’re keeping warm and eating alright.’
Just wanted to hear your voice because I’m not sure how I’m going to survive the next three years without you.
I hide the catch in my breath and realise I should have bought flowers while I was out – white lilies. Beautiful, waxy lilies that would fill the empty spaces in this house with their pure, white scent.
Sophie, however, on the other end of the line, chuckles. ‘I’m in Scotland, Mum, not the wilds of Antarctica, and it’s summer! They’ve got shops and beds and restaurants, you know. I’m absolutely fine!’
‘I know,’ I say softly. A selfish part of me wishes she’d sound a little bit less carefree. Just a little.
‘Anyway, gotta go! Love you, Mum!’
‘Love you too,’ I say back, but the line has already gone dead by the time I reach the last syllable.
I stare at the phone then decide to tuck it into my back pocket rather than putting it back in my handbag. It’ll be like I’m carrying Sophie around with me. I look at the clock. It’s only two. Another four hours until Dan gets home and I can tell him about the call. That’s our main topic of conversation these days – Sophie and what she’s up to – an oasis in the barren landscape of our communication.
I wander into the kitchen, put the kettle on, then decide I don’t actually want a cup of tea. I see my laptop sitting on the kitchen table and I sit down and turn it on. On automatic I log into Facebook. I spend a lot of time on Facebook, keeping up with what other people are doing with their lives.
I pretend to myself I’m just tinkering around for a while, reading a few updates from my cousin, liking some pictures of friends who’ve been out on the town, but eventually I cave and search for the reunion page. I find it almost instantly. There are comments from people I know. I don’t ‘like’ or ‘join’ but I do read.
One post in particular catches my attention: Hot guys: where are they now? I read down the comment thread. There are the predictable mentions of the college sporting gods and star drama students, but halfway down, snuggled in between the rest, I spot something:
Claire Rutt:
Anyone remember Jude Hansen?
Sam Broughton (was Stanley):
No? What subject did he do?
Claire Rutt:
Business Studies, I think …
Nadia Pike:
Ooh, yes! I remember him! Lovely dark hair and blue eyes. Not muscly, but definite eye candy! Wonder if he’ll turn up?
Claire Rutt:
Sigh. Probably not. Wasn’t much of a joiner, unless you had a double-barrelled name and daddy owned a yacht … I doubt he’d be interested in a poxy reunion populated with middle-class soccer mums and civil servants.
Sam Broughton (was Stanley):
Hey, watch yourself! Not only does Jack play football, but I work for the local council! Nothing poxy about me, thank you.
Claire Rutt:
:-p
Sam Broughton (was Stanley):
Anyway, pity. This Jude person was just starting to sound interesting! I’m single again, you know, and on the lookout for hubby no.3! ;-)
Claire Rutt:
Not the settling-down type, I’d say. I’d heard he’s quite the jetsetter now, though, so if you like a challenge …
I stop reading then. My stomach is swirling and I feel like I’m snooping, even though this is a public conversation on an open group. I close the browser window down and shut the lid of my laptop. After a few seconds staring at the kitchen cabinets, which I notice could really do with a good scrub, I open it up again.
I don’t go back to the reunion page; instead, I just type ‘Jude’ into the Facebook search box. A list of options turn up, none of them him. I hold my breath and add ‘Hansen’.
Nothing.
There’s Joseph Hansen, but he’s eighteen and living in Montana. And a Julian Hansen who’s a professor of philosophy, with grey hair and a kind smile, but he’s not my Hansen.
No. Jude’s not my Hansen. Never was, really.
I feel as if I’ve stepped over a line by this point, but instead of creeping back behind it I start sprinting forward. I pull up a search engine and enter those two names again, whispering them in my head as if they’re a secret.
There are no images that relate, but I do find reference to a Jude Hansen mentioned in an article about high-end estate agents, but when I search the name of the firm I discover the website is down for temporary maintenance. In full Sherlock Holmes-mode now, I go back to the article and spot the name of a photographer connected with his – something to do with either selling or finding her a house, possibly both. I search her name and ‘house’, and I get another set of results. Two pages down I see a fuzzy picture, from Twitter, I think. It’s a housewarming party and in the background there’s someone who looks very much like the Jude I used to know, but it’s difficult to tell, because it’s out of focus and the photographer’s finger is over the corner of the shot.
I sit back and stare at the screen, screwing my eyes up a little to see if that helps, but it just makes everything blurrier. I imagine it’s him anyway.
So he did do well for himself, just as Becca said. And then I mentally whisper possibly the two most dangerous words in the English language:
What if …?
I’d never told anyone this, not even Becca, but the day Dan proposed to me – after we were back in one of our regular, college drinking holes, had shared the news and everybody was buying rounds and congratulating us – Jude had found me and asked me for a quiet word in the pub garden. Even though it was July, we’d had the place to ourselves because it had been hammering down. I still remember the scent of warm soil when I think of that moment.
He’d stared at me in the glow of the security light, more serious than I’d ever seen him. ‘Don’t …’ he’d said.
I’d frowned. ‘Don’t what?’
‘Don’t marry him.’
I’d stared at him then, wondering what on earth was going through his head. Didn’t he remember that he’d been the one who’d pulled back and cooled off? ‘What? And marry you instead?’
‘Yes! I mean, no …’ He’d scrubbed his hand through his floppy dark hair and looked at me with unguarded honesty, a strange look on him, because he’d always been so careful to develop an air of knowingness.
My heart had begun to pound hard, just as it had when Dan had pulled a small velvet box from his pocket down by the river earlier the same evening.
Jude had cleared his throat and started again. ‘I mean … what I’m trying to say is that I think I made a horrible mistake.’
He’d looked at me, willing me to fill in the gaps, but I’d held my ground. Not this time. If he had something to say he was going to have to be clear about it. I had to know for sure. He’d taken in my silence and nodded.
‘I think I love you,’ he’d said. ‘And I think it might destroy me if you marry him.’ He’d screwed up his face and I’d known him well enough to know he was wrestling with whether to say something else. Finally, he’d added, ‘And I think it might destroy you too.’
As fast as my pulse had been skipping, I’d raised my eyebrows, waiting for more.
He’d shaken his head. ‘You’re right. Destroy is much too dramatic. What I mean is – ’ He’d broken off to capture both my hands in his. ‘I don’t think he’s what you need, Meg.’
Meg. He was the only person who’d called me that. I pause for a moment just to run my mind over that fact, like fingers reading braille.
‘And you are?’ I’d asked him.
He’d given me that look again. ‘I’d like to try to be.’
I’d shaken my head, more in disbelief than because I was refusing him. ‘But you’re supposed to be going off to France next – ’
‘Come with me.’
I’d frozen then, brain on overload, unable to process anything more. ‘I can’t,’ I’d said, pulling my hands from his, and I’d backed away. It would be more romantic, I suppose, to say that I’d stumbled away from him, overcome by emotion, but I don’t remember it that way at all. I remember my steps being quite precise and deliberate.
That was the last time I saw Jude Hansen. I’d left him there in the rain. I’d had to.
I close my eyes and concentrate on pausing the memory, like hitting a button on a TV remote, and then I file it away carefully again behind lock and key.
Jude had always had the potential to do well, but that had only been one side of the coin. He could also be a little bit arrogant, thinking his way was the only way, and he hadn’t responded well to authority. There had been a restless energy about him. I’m glad he’s harnessed it, made it work for him.
We’d got together the first year I was at uni, in the spring. I’d known Dan, too, but back then he’d been firmly in the ‘friend zone’, as Sophie would say.
Jude and I had a wild and romantic couple of months, where we’d hardly left each other’s side, then the three-month summer break had happened. Dominic, his best mate at uni, had parents who owned a villa in the south of France but I’d come home to Swanham and spent my summer working as a barmaid. I should have known then things weren’t going to work out. While Jude’s family weren’t too different from mine – his dad was a builder too – he’d always wanted more. The rest of his college girlfriends had been leggy and gorgeous, part of the rich crowd.
I was utterly devoted to him, and time apart only cemented those feelings. When I’d spotted him across the Student’s Union the first day of autumn term, I’d had one of those moments that you see in the movies, where I’d been suddenly sure that I loved him, but it seemed the separation hadn’t had the same effect on Jude. We’d continued to see each other, but it had felt … different. More casual. I wondered if there was someone else. Or several someone elses. Dominic had a rather attractive sister … But I’d never found any evidence of infidelity, so I’d continued to follow him round like an adoring puppy.
I think he’d liked the adulation. He probably should have weaned himself off it and cut me loose long before he did, but eventually he sat me down and explained he thought we were too young to tie ourselves down.
I’d agreed. We were. It was stupid to get attached, to think I’d found the person I’d be happy with for the rest of my life. I’d told myself I’d needed to grow up, be a little bit more sophisticated.
But then six months later, I’d got together with Dan. He’d liked me since Freshers’ Week, he’d said. You’d have thought I’d be gun-shy after Jude, that I wouldn’t have wanted to throw myself into something serious so soon, but I wasn’t. Somehow I’d just known Dan was a safe bet.
Dan.
I look up at the clock on the kitchen wall. Flip! Where has the time gone? He’ll be home soon. I quickly turn my laptop off and shove it on the Welsh dresser, covering it with a cookery book and some takeaway leaflets that came through the door. I start washing up, just to keep myself occupied and I don’t even notice what I’m cleaning because I’m staring out of the window.
Dan, a safe bet?
After twenty-four years of marriage, I’m just starting to realise I might have been wrong about that.
