Chapter Fifteen
The first thing I did was run a bath, as if tempting fate; but there was no repeat of the night before. Not that I expected it. And perhaps, like other first times, it could never really be repeated.
As I lay shrouded in bubbles, I forced myself to confront my feelings for Troy in uncomfortable detail. Funny how a comparatively short episode could have had such a lasting impact. Less than two months of uninhibited hedonism – or, as he’d called it, total immersion – had resulted in three years of withdrawal into a half-life of restraint.
I resolved to shed the last vestiges of bitterness and self-reproach. As with any relationship, there were good memories mixed with the bad; with new insight, I realised that I just needed to give myself permission to enjoy them. After all, there were plenty to choose from … Walking in the National Redwood Forest, craning our necks at the trees; humbled – yes, even Troy had used the word – by their unearthly grandeur. Wine-tasting in Sonoma, Napa’s quieter neighbour; his wry comment that we were already intoxicated by each other, a wine that money couldn’t buy. Seeing the quirkiness of San Francisco through his eyes, from the brassy bustle of Fisherman’s Wharf to the laid-back legacy of Haight-Ashbury’s Summer of Love. Watching sunsets from his car, with its scents of leather and pine. And far more intimate recollections …
Why would I want to deny the episode, or – worse still – forget it? It had happened, deepened my experience of life, formed the person I was today.
The bubbles started to fade, exposing my arms. I noticed faint red fingerprints where Troy had grabbed me; and the angrier mark underneath, where he’d dug his nail into my skin. Difficult to reconcile this display of aggression with the man I’d known, and with the memories I’d just been rediscovering. Except that perhaps it pointed to some sort of inner turmoil, stirred up by seeing me again.
Of course I had older, deeper wounds; but they were psychological and self-inflicted. And the fact that they were at last starting to heal was largely down to my feelings for someone else. I squeezed my eyes tightly shut, battling a rush of emotion. Somewhere on a nearby street, a table for two was reserved in the name of Jack Smith: a poignant symbol of what might have been, but was now in jeopardy.
Could I make things right between us? I forced my analytical mind to summarise what I knew about him. He was a man who responded to actions more than words, whose personal loyalties were strong, but who was still working through the fallout from his father’s death. His long-term relationship with fellow sufferer Karina, instead of helping, had intensified feelings of guilt and inadequacy – perhaps for both of them. Yet he had co-operated surprisingly well with my coaching offer of rapport, openness and trust: responding to the deep-dive requests, sharing the tragic story of his father, respecting the rules I’d put in place between us – until I broke them.
Now, in whatever capacity – whether as his coach, friend, or lover – it seemed I had let him down. Which meant that I believed him when he said that he’d already blocked my mobile phone number. I needed to understand his reasons for leaving, and in return I needed a chance to explain.
A chance to explain … That had been Troy’s request earlier, and I’d refused point blank. What if Jack did the same to me? I couldn’t blame him for it. Bad enough that he’d felt somehow betrayed and walked out in the first place; even worse that he’d apparently changed his mind and returned, only to find me with Troy. Correction: to find me being kissed by Troy, without any obvious resistance. Jack had reacted with what I recognised as fight-or-flight, an acute stress response to a threat – either perceived or real. Now I needed to convince him that the attempted kiss belonged to the first category, not the second.
But he was on a train back to Manchester while I was still in London. A North-South divide that, at this moment, felt even wider than two hundred miles …
I got out of the bath and wrapped myself in a towel, debating whether to get dressed and go home; eventually, however, I secured the door and slipped between the sheets. They were cool and unwelcoming, so different from last night. Yet I decided to stay in the hotel as planned, sleep in the bed we’d shared. Not because I expected him to come back, but because I could pretend he was still here.
I lay still, while my mind raced through a plan of action. The best way – the only way – to explain everything was face to face; I reached for my phone and looked up the timetable for trains to Manchester. The first one in the morning was shortly after eight o’clock – I could get a taxi to Grimshaw, as I’d done on my last visit. Stupid thought. He’d hardly be at the office on a Sunday – and I had no idea where else to find him.
There was always Midge and Bill. Could I ask them to phone him and suggest lunch – Corleone’s perhaps – so that I could turn up in their place? But that would mean taking them into my confidence; in which case I might as well abandon my play-acting and ask point blank where he lived.
Except the only contact information I had for Midge and Bill was a postal address.
I searched the online phone book, but could find no McGraws listed in Threlkeld; they must be ex-directory. I chewed my lip; how could I reach them, short of getting a taxi to Blencathra Lodge from the nearest station? And then it came to me – Midge and her paintings. I typed in ‘Midge McGraw, artist’, clicked on the first link that returned and almost whooped with delight. Her work was featured on a regional arts and crafts website, and her details included an email address that looked like a personal one.
It took a ridiculously long time to compose a short message:
Dear Midge,
I need to talk to you – tonight, if possible. Please could you send me the best contact number?
With kind regards,
Alicia
There, it was done; I just had to hope that she was someone who checked her emails regularly. I scrambled out of bed and made a cup of tea. Another reminder of the night before, and Jack’s voice: Got anything stronger? I chose peppermint, in an attempt to hold onto my hard-won serenity.
My phone pinged. I snatched it up, saw that Midge had replied and dialed her number – before I could change my mind.
She answered on the second ring. ‘Alicia?’
‘Yes. Sorry to bother you, it’s just—’ I hesitated, unsure how much to tell.
‘Is it about Jack?’
‘Yes, I need to – oh Midge, I don’t know where to start.’
‘Why not at the beginning?’
I carried the cup of tea to the bedside table and settled myself against the pillows, on the side where he’d slept. Deep breath – stay calm. ‘It depends which beginning you mean. The imaginary one, when we told you we’d met at the ballet – or the real one, when I went to his office on an executive coaching assignment.’
After that, it all spilled out. The instant attraction, and my refusal to acknowledge it … The complicated legacy of my relationship with Troy … My reluctant agreement to start the coaching … The suggested role play in the Lakes, and Jack’s list of justifications … The realisation that a different agenda was emerging … Our separate decisions to bring the coaching to an end … His surprise trip to London, and its natural outcome … My surprise meeting with Troy, and its unintended consequences.
‘I’m sorry for deceiving you and Bill,’ I went on. ‘But, whatever you think of me, please help me to make things right with Jack. I want to go and see him tomorrow – except I haven’t a clue where he lives.’
Silence; then she said drily, ‘I’m tempted to take you there myself – but only so that I can kill him with my bare hands, and that would defeat the whole object of your visit.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You’ve nothing to be sorry about, whereas he …’ Her voice trailed away. ‘It’s true that Bill and I assumed from the way he talked that you were his girlfriend. And it would certainly have been a good tactic with Karina, if she’d bothered to turn up. But there was no need to keep the coaching under wraps – Bill would have told you what you wanted to know, he’d do anything for Jack.’
I digested this in silence. Even though Midge had confirmed two of Jack’s reasons for the role play, she was still baffled by the third reason – the one most closely related to my coaching assignment, the one I should have rejected on the spot. Why had I allowed myself to be persuaded so easily into the role of Jack’s girlfriend? Could it be because, subconsciously, I was already half in love with him? And all the time I thought myself immune, because he reminded me of Troy …
They’re not really alike, of course – Jack’s a far better man. It was more my reactions to him that brought back memories of Troy – something I should have realised right from the start. But that doesn’t change the fact that I could have interviewed Bill openly …
‘I see,’ I managed at last. ‘Well, you can take me to his house, but it sounds like I should be the one killing him with my bare hands. As slowly and painfully as possible.’
She laughed. ‘Och, I don’t think he’s in any real danger from either of us, is he? But I’m serious about the first part of the offer, I could meet you somewhere near Manchester. Are you driving, or coming by train?’
‘Train. If I go home to get my car, I might chicken out.’
‘Can you get to Preston station, then? Saves me negotiating Manchester city centre, and Jack’s only half an hour or so from there.’
It was arranged in a moment; I would get the first direct train from Euston, arriving shortly before noon. She and Bill would pick me up and drive me to Jack’s house – and that was as far as the plan went. I shied away from any further discussion, and she didn’t encourage me.
We ended the call with profuse thanks on my side, and cheerful protests on hers. Alone with my thoughts once again, I sipped my tea, besieged by regret and uncertainty. I longed for, yet dreaded, tomorrow – knowing that, once I saw Jack, I would be either elated or distraught. And, right now, it was too close to call. In the end I fell into an exhausted sleep, and dreamt that I went to Jack’s house. I rang the bell, but it was Karina who came to the door …
Morning broke, relentless sunshine. I got up too soon, packed too quickly, checked out of the hotel and arrived half an hour early for my train. I spent most of this time agonising over which ticket to buy. A day return was too restrictive, given that I had no guarantee of Jack being at home, and might even have to wait until he showed up at work. An open return seemed to demonstrate a reluctance to commit, a triumph of the rational over the emotional. I opted – with a thrill of trepidation – for a single: no limitation on the date, or even the starting point of my return to the south.
Once on the train, I bought a newspaper and a coffee, and went through the motions of enjoying both. I felt that, if I analysed or prepared in any way for what was to come, I would fail. For the first time since that Californian summer, I’m being led by my heart as opposed to my head. Scary.
Reading a paper wouldn’t normally fill a journey of almost three hours; but fortunately this was a Sunday, and there was a seemingly endless supply of newsprint. At last I heard the announcement that Preston would be the next stop. Deep breath. And another.
I texted Midge to say that I’d arrived, and received an instant reply: ‘Am outside – you can’t miss me!’ I marched through the ticket barrier, fabricating a smile at the same railway official who’d helped me a week ago – and then hesitated outside the station, unsure which of the parked cars to head for. There weren’t many to choose from: a battered silver people carrier, a small yellow hatchback, an old white van – no, a motorhome. A motorhome that looked vaguely, heart-stoppingly, familiar.
The nut-brown arm waggling out of the driver’s window settled it. As I approached, Midge jumped down and gave me a hug.
‘No hard feelings?’ I said, shyly.
She picked up my case and stowed it in the luggage compartment. ‘No hard feelings at all, and Bill’s the same. He’s gone on ahead, by the way – he wanted to check out the lie of the land at Jack’s.’
I puzzled over her last comment as I swung myself up into the passenger seat. ‘Why aren’t you travelling together?’
She didn’t answer immediately; once the engine spluttered into life, she concentrated on manoeuvring Hermann into the sporadic flow of traffic. Then, with an apologetic smile, ‘We decided you needed a back-up plan. After we drop you at Jack’s, we’ll be skedaddling off home – but if we leave Hermann behind then you can camp out on his doorstep in comfort.’
I suppressed a gulp of dismay. ‘Do you think that’s going to be necessary?’
‘Who knows? He may be out until this evening, or he may not want to co-operate – at least at first,’ she added, hastily. ‘Anyway, I thought you liked Hermann?’
‘I do, I really do. I’m just a bit on edge about how Jack’s going to react. Any advice? You know him so much better than I do.’
‘In some ways.’ She waved vigorously at a motorhome coming the other way.
She laughed. ‘No, it’s what we do in the motorhome community, wave to each other on the road. Just like we give our motorhomes proper names, like Hermann. Back to your question. Yes, I’ve got some advice for you.’ A sideways look at me. ‘Decide what you want out of your relationship with Jack, and go for it. No more pussyfooting around.’
I was silent. Then, with a forced laugh, ‘That’s sort of what I tell my coaching clients. It starts with goal-setting, but then there’s always the deep dive – the reality check. I know what my goal is with Jack, what I don’t know is how realistic it is. And there’s no time to do the deep dive justice.’
Another motorhome, another wave from Midge. ‘You know, Alicia, you can plan your life as much as you want, but it’ll always throw you a curved ball at some time or other. It’s how you deal with the unexpected, or the unknown, that matters.’
She was right, of course. Which was why my comfort zone was executive coaching, with its focus on business. Somehow that applied an order – albeit a superficial one – to the natural chaos of human needs and emotions and communications.
She went on, ‘Anyway, wasn’t last weekend the deep dive with Jack? Pretending to be in love by day, and sharing a rather cramped space by night – you couldn’t help getting to know him better, surely?’
I swallowed and stared out of the window. We were driving through a landscape of moors and scattered cottages; bleaker than the Lakes, with only a smudge of hills in the distance. ‘Are we nearly there?’ My voice was little more than a whisper.
‘Ten minutes to Ramsbottom,’ she said, as if that explained everything. She added, gently, ‘If it’s any consolation, based on what I saw, I think you and Jack do have a future together.’ Just as I was about to ask her to elaborate, her mobile rang. ‘That’ll be Bill. Can you speak to him? I’m not hands free.’
I cleared my throat and took the call. Bill was phoning to report that Jack’s car was nowhere to be seen, and to suggest lunch in one of the local pubs. I relayed this message to Midge and she nodded. ‘Tell him to try the Eagle and Child first – we’ll be there in ten.’
The houses were clustered more densely now, suggesting some form of village or town. At first glance, their old stone walls glowed with the mellowness of those in the south; but I detected a darker hue, as if the soot of Victorian industry still lingered. Attractive, though, and in keeping with the wilder landscape.
The pub was one of the larger buildings, and inside everything was clean and bright and shining. The warmth of Bill’s welcome, the cosy table for three, and the impressive Sunday lunch helped me to relax – once I’d stopped watching the door, in case Jack walked in.
We left an hour and a half later, setting off in convoy back the way we’d come. After a mile or two, we turned off the main road and into a narrow street. At the end, backing onto the moors, was a row of six old cottages, huddled together in pairs. Midge pulled up outside the furthest one, where the road broadened out to allow parking for several cars. Jack’s was not among them.
‘That’s his house, the one with the blue door,’ she said. ‘I’ll show you where everything is in here, then Bill and I will be heading off.’
My stomach churned in disbelief; despite her earlier warning, I’d been fooling myself that they’d still be around when Jack returned – to act as referees, perhaps. I stood as if in a trance while she retrieved my suitcase, produced a mug, tea and some milk, explained the idiosyncrasies of the plumbing. Then she handed me the keys and hugged me goodbye.
I blinked rapidly. ‘But how will I get Hermann back to you?’ I said, knowing that this was the least of my worries.
‘Och, we’ll think of something. Now you make yourself a nice cuppa and wait for Jack.’ She cocked her head on one side, as if noting my agitation for the first time. ‘Do you want me to ring him and find out when he’ll be coming home? I’m sure I can think of an excuse to be in touch.’
‘No thanks,’ I said, forcing a smile. ‘For once in my life, I’d rather not be prepared.’