Chapter Two

 

 

WHILE HE’S DRIVING, I TRY not to notice how nice his car is; moreover, how sexy his hands appear as he drives, all veined and strong, sturdy and sure. He always says he skimped on his living arrangements with a one-bedroom flat for the sake of having a nice car, but this is really a very nice car. It’s an Alfa Romeo with cream leather seats and the engine sounds powerful as he drives us towards Beverley, where his offices are. The green of East Yorkshire whooshes by the windows and I begin to wonder if I should even be doing this.

The thing is, Gage would go mad if he knew about my friendship with Sam. He doesn’t really know how much I lean on Sam. Nobody does. I haven’t even told Hetty about him; that we’ve kept in touch via email since uni. It’s only recently that I have begun meeting him more regularly for coffee, like today. I think it’s because Hetty isn’t here for me to lean on so much anymore that I’m now leaning on Sam instead.

Sam and I have only ever been friends but it hasn’t escaped my notice he’s gorgeous. We just seem to have always had a camaraderie I’ve never been able to explain and it’s true, we’re both writers. Sam’s a copywriter for a marketing company these days, whereas like he said, I’ve demoted my writing to describing days out in the park like I’m writing an essay. The need to write is still inside me and I guess that’s why I always send Sam long emails, because I know he’ll read them – and I know he understands.

I shouldn’t feel guilty about a friend trying to offer me a job opportunity. Gage goes and does whatever he wants, whenever. My husband would never admit it, but he assumes that I will always be around for the kids and would never leave the country without them, thereby he presumes he can leave the country and do whatever he wants. Honestly, sometimes I wonder why we ever got married. I really do.

There was the one time I left him for a few days and we nearly split up. I went to my mother’s (okay, so it wasn’t that dramatic). Anyway, Hetty’s future father-in-law Warrick, who people have decided is some kind of angel in disguise, went and talked some sense into my husband. I returned home and for a while it got good, but then it… tapered off, and I can’t explain it. Life seems to pass me by while I remain trapped in a bubble of some sort. It’s strange because inside I still feel like a teenager, but when I look in the mirror, I see someone with the weight of the world on her shoulders. My inner need to rebel and explore is suppressed, and sometimes I think I’m my own worst enemy.

“We’re here,” Sam says, pulling up at a black gate standing before a private car park.

I must have been so deep in thought just then, I’m shocked we’re already here.

Sam slaps a key card against a security panel in the wall surrounding the car park, then the gates begin to slide open, allowing his sleek black car to roll into the lot. He jumps out of the car and jogs back to the security panel, then the gates begin to shut.

He opens my door and tells me, “I’m locking us in because I wouldn’t put it past the Saturday shoppers to try their luck parking here!”

I allow him to hold the door open and then close it for me as I vacate the vehicle. We seem to have arrived at an old civic building which has been transformed into offices. Most of the properties on the street he’s brought me to are residential, but there’s the odd one like this which private firms use as their premises. The street we’re on couldn’t be any more traditional with dense cobbles and houses built in various shapes and sizes.

I follow him to a side entrance and he unlocks the door, then strides in to switch off the security alarm. I notice him sending a text to someone: probably his boss, who has been alerted to someone gaining entrance to the offices on a Saturday.

“Do you want another drink, or are you all right?” he asks.

“I wouldn’t mind, actually. Where’s your loo?”

“Oh, this way,” he says, dancing about on his feet. I think he’s nervous to have me here with him and I do not know why. I’m just plain old Liza for fuck’s sake. It occurs to me though… perhaps he’ll receive a sort of finder’s fee for me, if I turn out to be good for the job. I laugh that off internally. Clearly, Sam doesn’t need the money!

I use my time in the bog to gather myself. I need to bloody calm down. I’m not taking a new job. I’m just visiting a friend’s place of work. I’m not committed. I’m not bound by any rule that says you have to take a job just because your friend offered it to you.

I flush and notice there’s posh handwash and cream. The handtowels are freshly laundered and the toilet paper I just used was quite soft, too. I shake my head and chuckle to myself. It’s bad but I have been telling Hetty for ages that the toilet situation at the back of her dress shop is unacceptable. It’s basically outdoors, situated in nothing more than a storage cupboard – and you’re lucky if you can get the tap on the vanity to work, hence the continual presence of antibacterial gel on the side. I know every business has to start somewhere and I am so proud of her. She’s an amazing designer with true artistic flair. She might have drunk herself into an early grave if Joe hadn’t come along – and all that talent might have gone to waste. There is a lot to be thankful for, I have to remind myself. However, she definitely needs to up her game in the facilities department.

Now Hetty’s got Joe, I know that one day, her talent is going to take her further afield. She won’t be at that shop forever, and what will that leave me with? I suppose Sam’s right… I do need to start thinking about where it is that I am needed. Moreover, where it is I am wanted.

I leave the loo feeling refreshed, having indulged myself in some body spray left out and the nice hand cream, too. I find Sam in a kitchen, whistling as he works. He hands me a cup and saucer containing a cappuccino. He’s done that thing where the barista makes a pattern in the froth.

“Thanks, gosh,” I exclaim.

“We don’t have chocolate sprinkles, though.”

“God, that’s all right. The mug I use at Hetty’s needs a good bleaching and the filthy old kettle is probably held together by scale!” I accidently snort when I laugh, but he doesn’t berate me for it, he laughs too.

The working coffee machine in this place is pretty impressive, as is the place itself. We stand for a few moments sipping our coffee, watching out of the windows as people go about their business, heading for the market in town or to the shops or for a late lunch. It’s mid-afternoon now and I ate lunch on the go earlier, but I will be ready for dinner soon.

“It’s pretty good coffee,” I comment.

“Yeah, it’s the proper stuff. Once you get used to it, the stuff in other places just makes you want to puke.”

“Ah, getting a taste for the finer things in life, eh?”

He grins and I admire the pristine white kitchen in this old building. It feels like this place is a bit of a warren. Even though the radiators aren’t on, the sun blazing through all the windows is keeping the place warm over the weekend.

“I remember at uni when you said the house you were living in had pipes which rattled in the walls.”

“Oh my god, that was awful. It was like being haunted by a poltergeist or something!” he chuckles. “I’ve definitely lived in some howling places!”

“I sometimes used to wish I’d lived in halls or student digs with everyone else, but all your stories convinced me otherwise.”

“Well, what I don’t spend on beer anymore, I spend on cars. The house always came second for me back then, too.”

He makes me laugh. “And what about the future? It seems like you’ve got it good here.”

“Yeah, it’s good. Hey, let me show you around. Bring your coffee if you like.”

“Okay…” I leave my saucer where it is, but take my big round cup of frothy cappuccino with me.

“This is my office,” he says, opening the door on a room.

I peek inside and see he has a whole office to himself. “Wow.”

He has one of those bendy/twisty chairs and lots of filing cabinets and pictures all over the walls of his travels around the world. The room is impeccably clean. On his desk there is a pot of pens, a landline and an in-tray. He also has a couple of large computer screens which he no doubt plugs his laptop into, split-screening all the time.

“You get your own office?”

“I’m a senior editor now. I thought I told you?”

“Bloody hell, Sam! You never said. You’re, what? Twenty-six. That’s a big deal!”

“Yeah, I suppose.” He stands by the window, gazing at the little courtyard garden they’ve got outside. Sam’s a little older than me given he took a gap year before starting university. I’ve yet to turn twenty-five.

“Is this why you like it around here? You’re a big fish in a little pond,” I state, drawing a little smirk from him.

“It’s not bad, is it?”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Let’s show you around properly, then.”

We leave his office and I discover there’s an upstairs, where they keep their design studio. They have a couple of graphic designers and photographers on their staff, I’m told, but they mostly use freelancers. Then I’m shown the two conference rooms they keep, each with a state-of-the-art conference suite and a dozen chairs surrounding a huge oak table.

I’m also shown the games room, where they play pool at lunchtimes, and they also have a couple of other offices like Sam’s where the managing director and his assistant must hang out.

Then we head back downstairs to the main office area a couple of doors down from his office. It looks more like what I thought this place would be like… with a couple of rows of long desks and lots of screens dotted about. There are whiteboards and chalkboards and TVs on various walls, plus a whole back wall dedicated to pictures of the staff making trips around the world.

“It’s impressive,” I decide. “Really. So, what is it you market?”

“Yachts,” he says, perplexed. “I thought I told you that?”

“Oh, maybe you did.” Maybe my baby brain dumped the information last year, who knows?

I’m looking at the wall of photos when I deduce, “So, you have in-house people and you produce brochures, etcetera?”

“Well, there are a lot of foreign manufacturers and they want people like us to write copy for their various marketing materials, to a high standard of English. What they send us will often be Japanese-English or Dutch-English, and they want it to be English-English.”

“Oh,” I chuckle. “And that’s it?”

“There’s a lot more, but my boss Simon is better at outlining the whole shebang. If you were to interview, he’d be better equipped to go through it all with you. It’s his baby after all.”

“I see. Okay.”

I follow him back to the kitchen, where I ask, “What would be my job?”

“Copywriter, I expect. He didn’t say exactly, he just asked if I knew someone with good English.”

“Well, I have good English.”

“Exactly. That’s it.” He claps his hands, as if I’ve finally got what he’s been trying to say.

However, I still feel suspicious because as far as I’m concerned, Sam’s intentions are mysterious. Sure, we’re friends and I do have a good command of English, but in what world would I want to write about fucking yachts? Does he think I’m desperate?

“I’m still going to think about it, though. Okay?”

“Yeah, yeah… fine.” He fails to hide his disappointment that I haven’t asked him to sign me up for an interview right away.

We finish our coffees and put our cups in the dishwasher. If he wanted to hide the evidence, he’d handwash them and put them away. Hardly likely someone will ask him why there are two saucers and matching cups in the dishwasher come Monday, when it was empty at the end of Friday, but… this is me, you see. I can’t switch off my mind. I’m always bothered about what people think, I can’t help it. It’s who I am. What will Gage say if I tell him I’ve decided to start writing about yachts? He’ll probably send me for testing. I’m going to drive myself crazy one of these days.

“I’m about ready for some grub, what about you?” I ask, my stomach rumbling as we leave the office and lock up. It’s no doubt hunger that’s sending me into freak-out mode.

“Yeah, I could go for something. Do you want to eat out, or get some supplies and head back to mine?”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot you live nearby.”

“Yeah, my flat overlooks the canal. We could get some wine and sit on the terrace.”

“What about getting home?”

“I’ll order you a taxi?”

“Okay.”

We jump into his car and head for Tesco. When he parks up, his vehicle attracts attention.

Turning to me, he asks, “Do you want me to run round? You can wait here.”

I stare straight ahead of me, at some bushes. “Ashamed of being seen with me, are you?”

“Just trying to save us some time. I’ll be quicker on my own.”

There are a million things on the tip of my tongue right now, but I plump for, “I’ll wait here.”

“Won’t be long. Anything you don’t like?”

“No. I’m not picky.”

I watch him leave, staring at the back of him before he disappears around a corner.

I remember the first seminar we shared at university. We were meant to be reading a passage from T. S. Eliot or something, then discussing it in pairs. Sam and I ended up laughing and joking about some other random topic and at one point, we both looked up to see the whole class staring at us, wondering what the hell we were blathering on about. I remember it like it was yesterday. It was six years ago, when I was almost nineteen and he was twenty. He could get any girl and he knew it, but he’d sit with me in the library café laughing and joking about the array of weird and wonderful professors we had teaching us, not to mention all the Shakespearean double-entendres this one professor dropped all the time. A lot has happened since then, but it could have all been so different if I had met Sam before Gage. I tell myself this all the time, but in the same breath I remind myself that Sam isn’t the settling-down type.

Anyway, I fell pregnant with Emily in the second year of uni and we had a quickie wedding at the insistence of my mother. I had to defer my third year, completing most of it in bits and pieces. I missed out on so much, but Sam would email me gossip and anecdotes. He didn’t have to. He could have forgotten me, but he didn’t, and I didn’t forget him. When I had Rupert a little while after Ems, my life sort of went tits up for a few months. Our emails ceased. However, recently we started up again and now we’re meeting regularly for coffee.

It feels like I should leave this car and walk away, right now. Sure, he’s left his keys in the ignition and this expensive vehicle could get nicked if I do abandon it. Or, I could lock the car and leave the keys in a hiding place or something, buried under a rock in the bush opposite. I could text him the location and then I’m away scot-free and we don’t have to do this and his car is safe, too.

Then there’s this other part of me, screaming. It’s the part I’ve ignored for so long.

Gage and me…

I never planned to fall pregnant with Ems so young, and as much as I love her and our son, I know that if I could go back in time and tell my younger self anything, it would be to have waited a little longer before starting a family. However, hindsight is a wonderful thing.

I’ve had to learn about life for myself because my parents never sat me down and had those all-important talks with me about being careful, taking my time and putting myself first. The good thing is, now when my kids are older, I will be able to give them the benefit of my experience.

The thing I’m most resentful of is that it feels as though I’ve been paying the price for becoming a mother so young, whereas Gage hasn’t. He also became a parent at a relatively young age, but whereas I halted my studies and lost my social life, he’s carried on in the same way as he did before – all while never stopping to ask me how I am.

Gage and I were teenagers for goodness sake – handed very little advice from our respective families. We had been sleeping together for just a short while, using condoms. Then I started taking the pill, thinking it was the done thing, but I didn’t allow enough time for it to really start working on my system before we went without condoms. We’d only been sleeping together for two months before I was pregnant. Then I later fell pregnant with Rupert by accident, too. Well, not so much accident as sloppiness. I was tired and kept missing pills, and whenever I had a stomach bug, I forgot to tell Gage to use a condom for the next week after that. I could blame it all on myself, but the truth is, he’s to blame as well. Gage doesn’t know the first thing about a woman’s body and he’s been entirely content with me popping out babies. This is what love should be, right? You meet a man who wants to give you babies and it’s all good.

Gage was in the year above me at Sixth Form when we started going out – and I knew he was set to start playing professional rugby after finishing his A levels. I knew his job would be financially rewarding and I’m not going to lie, that was part of the attraction. My mum and dad had money when I was growing up, but they penny-pinched to the nth degree and I never understood it. There was a lot I went without just so they could continue expanding the business, and now that they’ve sold it, their pensioner-hood is golden and littered with one cruise after another, but now here I am having married a man for financial security. A man I’m not entirely sure I can see myself spending the rest of my life with. A man who doesn’t seem to understand me as well as Sam does. There, I admitted it. It’s out there.

I guess it’s what comes next that scares the shit out of me.

I take my phone out of my bag and notice my mum has sent a text: Okay, love? Want me to have them overnight?

She must know I’ve got waylaid because I’m not back to pick them up yet.

Would you?

Yes, no problem.

I’ll come for them at nine tomorrow morning.

No rush, love. You know I adore having them.

Thank you.xxx

My mother’s a good egg really.