Life Begins (17 page)

The impure aspect of her invitation to Charlotte and Sam was something Theresa had been doing her best not to think about and related to survival instincts of a baser and far more calculated kind than those impeding her prowess on the ice rink. Staying close to the enemy, her mother would have called it. There was no fresh evidence for worry, only
the two pencil lines in the diary and a tension that came and went, sometimes feeling real and sometimes not. But if something did happen – some development in the crush or whatever the hell it was, if it even existed – Theresa wanted to be near enough to know it, to
smell
it, as surely as an animal scents its own doom.

‘Oh, look, Theresa, look – they’re having
such
fun. Quite like the old days,’ exclaimed Charlotte, setting down two Styrofoam cups of tea.

‘The great thing about boys,’ remarked Theresa drily, ‘is that generally they don’t
talk
they just
do
, and if the doing works…’ she waved in the direction of Sam and George, who had borrowed Charlotte’s scarf and were using it to tow each other round the rink ‘… everything else falls into place.’

Charlotte carefully tore off the corner of a paper sachet of sugar and tipped it into her tea. ‘This is so what Sam needs after the ghastliness of last week.’ She paused, shaking the sachet, steeling herself to describe what had hitherto been too awful for release, even to Martin, though he had phoned to apologize after her dawn message, admitting coldly but decently that if there was blame for Sam’s appalling lapse in behaviour they did indeed share it. ‘In Miss Brigstock’s office, all of them there – Rose, her father, the
counsellor–
with Sam having done such despicable things and everybody thinking it’s my fault…’

‘Of course it’s not your fault.’

‘Yeah, right.’ Charlotte smiled sadly. ‘It’s because he’s been unhappy, of course.’

‘Of course,’ cut in Theresa, briskly. ‘Everybody knows that’s why.’

‘And if a child isn’t happy, whose fault is it?’

Theresa, catching George’s eye as he sailed past their
table in pursuit of Sam and the scarf, waved both arms, secretly glad of the distraction. There might not have been abuse as such, not as the hateful orchestra woman had suggested, but there had been trouble in the Turner household, all right, and Sam had borne the brunt of it. What was more he had always been the centre of his mother’s world, which was a dangerous place for any child.

‘And yours wouldn’t have done it, would they?’ persisted Charlotte, with endearing frankness. ‘Your kids wouldn’t have twisted Rose’s arm, would they? And it had to be
her
of all people, didn’t it? The girl without a
mother.’
Charlotte groaned. ‘You should have seen the way that man looked at me – the father. It was…
deathly
, like… like I suppose I would have looked at him had it been the other way round,’ she conceded glumly, dropping her face into her hands.
You
know he viewed my house, don’t you? Or rather
didn’t
because he hated it so much on sight.’

‘Dominic Porter? No, I didn’t… Sorry to laugh, oh dear, what a small world… Oh dear.’ Theresa sat back in her chair, shaking her head. ‘But I hope, deathly looks aside, he was reasonable… I mean, everybody knows children are capable of all sorts of things.’

‘I suppose he was, if silence is reasonable.’

‘Apparently he never talks. Naomi says she’s tried several times and got nowhere. Poor man, after what he’s been through… He works for one of those big American banks, yet he’s always dropping Rose off, isn’t he? And he was at the swimming gala the other day.’

‘Well, bravo – I’m sorry,’ Charlotte added, in response to Theresa’s look of surprise, ‘but just because he’s widowed and a single dad everybody thinks he’s marvellous or heroic or something. Whereas a single mother, even one whose husband had
died
instead of running off with a younger
model, would get nothing like the same sort of admiration for doing ten times what he manages. Though I feel sorry for him, of course,’ she added quickly, ‘what he must have been through and so on.’

‘His brother is that actor,’ said Theresa, deciding it prudent to change the subject, ‘Benedict Porter, the one who was in that thing with the dog and the two doctors. Oh, and George says Rose is very stuck-up,’ she offered next, judging from the scornful expression on Charlotte’s face that this might be a surer route to consolation.

Charlotte beamed at once. ‘I’ve always liked your son. And I like him even more now,’ she murmured, tracking the boys who had given up the scarf game in favour of imitating speed skaters, bending double, left hands pinned behind their backs. ‘This will cheer Sam up so much. Although, funnily enough, he does seem quite a lot better already – or at least calmer. I made him write a letter to the wretched Rose, which he hated, but he did it, and after a bit of early resistance he’s been going to school like a lamb. This Mr Dawson, he seems a good thing. Sam has seen him a couple of times, though I’ve no idea what they talk about.’ An uncertain laugh escaped her, triggered by the thought of her son opening up to a stranger, pouring out his heart in a way he never would to her.

‘The letter thing sounds like a great move,’ Theresa assured Charlotte, seeing the darkening expression and puzzling over how she could ever have regarded a creature in such an obvious state of torment as a threat of any kind. ‘I’ve tried to get more out of George about the general situation at school, but as I said, the problem with these males is that they don’t
talk.’
She pulled a face. ‘Speaking of which, how is it going with that lovely new man of yours?’

‘Lovely?’ Charlotte, unaware of having said anything so
enthusiastic or unguarded about Tim Croft, glanced up from her tea in surprise.

‘The estate agent.’

‘I know who you mean, dumbo. I just had the impression that you – everybody – had written Tim off as unsuitable.’

‘Nonsense,’ Theresa retorted, justifying the lie because she had genuinely changed her mind. ‘I can’t speak for Naomi or Josephine, but personally I don’t think it matters what somebody
is.
It’s how a man
behaves
that counts.’ She paused, as her thoughts looped back wearily, reluctantly, to the new invisible shadow over her marriage. Of course Henry would behave well. He always had, he always would. Hadn’t he been the one to pull
her
back on course all those years before? Hadn’t his faith in their union always been stronger than hers? Hadn’t he wept tears of joy holding each of their slithery newborns in his arms, gasping that her love and her labour
completed
him? That couldn’t change, surely, not with one silly crush, if indeed there even was a silly crush… and weren’t crushes normal anyway? Hadn’t she got a bit starry-eyed for a time over the young music teacher who had insisted George join the jazz band, revelling, just a little, in the man’s praise of her son’s powerful lungs and quick fingers? Yes, she had been a shade smitten there, all right. But then he had got engaged to a flautist and left the school, oblivious, quite rightly, to any flutterings his dark-eyed sincerity had provoked in the heart of a woman guilty only of being overtired and looking twice where once should have done. Such things were
normal
, blips in a rhythm, nothing to stop a heart.

Charlotte had scrambled off her seat and was crouching at Theresa’s feet. ‘I think your laces are too loose.’ She pushed up the sleeves of her jumper. ‘Maybe if I tightened them–’

Theresa let out a small shriek, trying to lift the skates out
of reach without causing physical injury to Charlotte’s arms. ‘Any tighter and I’ll get
gangrene.
There’s no circulation, I tell you, just heat and pain.’

‘Let me see,’ Charlotte insisted, settling on to her knees and pulling Theresa’s left foot on to them.
Yes
, you see, it’s loose at this bit,’ she patted the ankle, ‘and too tight here. Whereas if…’ She was soon expertly unhooking, tugging and retying the laces. ‘There. Now the other one, please.’

Theresa submitted in silence. The first boot felt considerably better. She leant back in her chair, studying her friend through half-closed eyes, her affection in full flow again. ‘You know you’re very good-looking, don’t you?’ she blurted. ‘You’re very good-looking and that’s power. You should use it wisely.’

Charlotte snorted, keeping her head down. ‘And you should shut up – shut up and
keep still.’

For a few moments neither spoke. Charlotte carried on with the task she had assigned herself, inwardly marvelling that a compliment could sound like a warning and at the recent predilection people had developed to remark on her looks. She had never felt less attractive, less sure of herself, in her adult life. Glimpsing her body between the folds of her towel in the bathroom mirror, these days, seeing the sharp points of her elbows and knees, the loud, exuberant topping of her hair, she sometimes felt as if the ugly little girl of her school days was re-emerging, that she had never really left her behind.

‘I just meant,’ Theresa pressed on, ‘now that you’re single, you’ll probably find yourself fighting men off… bees round the proverbial honeypot, et cetera.’

‘I haven’t moved to another planet,’ Charlotte protested, laughing as she tied the last double knot and returned to her seat. ‘I’m just getting divorced.’

Theresa sipped her tasteless, now tepid tea, fighting the urge to say that from what she could see divorce
was
another planet – a different game plan, different rules, different priorities; that by separating from Martin, Charlotte had upset the balance not only of her life but of those closest to her, and they should ignore that fact at their peril.

‘I wasn’t a
honeypot before
, and I’m certainly not one now,’ continued Charlotte, merrily. ‘My history as regards men is…’ She hesitated. ‘Well, never mind what it is.’

‘No, go on,’ pressed Theresa, truly curious, since Charlotte had never disclosed much about life before Martin.

‘Charlotte shrugged. ‘A couple of crap boyfriends and then…’ She had plucked the plastic spoon out of her empty cup and was bending it, as if fascinated by its flexibility. ‘Then Martin.’ The spoon snapped and Charlotte dropped the two pieces into her empty cup, adding, in a much lighter tone, ‘The fact is, Theresa, dear, I don’t
want
anybody particularly, and after what I had to put up with who could blame me? What I do want, more than anything, is to be okay on my own and to have some
fun
, which is why I’m having dinner on Friday with the “lovely” Tim Croft who was sweet enough to send me roses after I blew him out because of the hoo-ha with Sam –’

‘Roses?’ Theresa clapped her hands in delight at evidence of such an advanced state of romance. ‘And dinner? But that’s fantastic. I do hope you’re splashing out on something fabulous to wear.’

‘No, I am not,’ retorted Charlotte, grinning. ‘He can take me as I am, in my standby black trousers and an ironed shirt.’

‘Oh, don’t be such a spoilsport.’ Theresa giggled, truly relaxed now, wagging a finger. ‘I thought you said you wanted some
fun
.’

Charlotte pulled a face. ‘As everyone keeps reminding me, I
am almost forty –
’

‘Hah,’ Theresa interrupted, on fire now with goodwill and self-confidence. ‘On that score I’ve been meaning to say that I think Henry’s idea of us helping you throw a party was inspired.’

‘No, no, no!’ Charlotte cried, holding up both hands. ‘Thank you, that’s sweet, but as I said when your dear husband first made the offer, I should hate it. I shall book a table in a restaurant or something, invite a few friends and probably – if I can face it – my mother.’

‘Well, if you change your mind,’ pressed Theresa, the generosity coming even more easily now that Charlotte had turned her down.

‘The only possible change will be deciding to ignore the bloody thing altogether.’

‘Now, that I won’t allow. What about the new place that’s just won an award? Contini’s… No, Santini’s.’

‘Theresa, June is months away,’ pleaded Charlotte.

‘Well, a place like that gets booked up so don’t leave it too late. Ah, here come the boys, starving, I expect. Are you starving, darlings?’

George exchanged a scowl with Sam. He hated it when his mother darlinged him, and it was even worse when she did it to his friends. ‘Five more minutes,’ he yelled, shoving Sam, who shoved him back as they set off towards the ice, galloping precariously on the points of their skates.

By Friday the weather had built to a climax of such unseasonal warmth that pundits were issuing a new spate of warnings about global warming and hosepipe bans. When Tim, in response to the groans of his sweltering colleagues, tried to turn off the heating in the office the control knob
came away in his hands. Too busy to deal with it himself, he asked Savitri to get on to the gas company while he rolled up his sleeves to tackle the list of phone calls that needed to be got through before an afternoon of viewings. A spell of spring sunshine, and the housing market went mad; it happened every year yet took him by surprise each time.

Tim moved round his desk as he talked, transferring the phone from ear to ear, pausing to make notes of numbers and appointments and adding to the doodle round his list of things to buy for the dinner he was cooking Charlotte.
Fillet steak, mushrooms, shallots, cream, rice, rocket, cheeses and biscuits, fruit, champagne, wine, FLOWERS, CANDLES –
the latter two items warranting capitals because they were precisely the sort of important details he might forget.

That he wasn’t a romantic had been one of Phoebe’s favourite accusations; all of his faults – not remembering important dates, not saying the right thing at the right time, not closing the loo door, not noticing new outfits or hairstyles – had served as ammunition for this main theme. Girls cared about that stuff and Tim was determined to show, at this tantalizingly poised stage of his new relationship, that he could more than deliver on it.

The cookbook in which he found the recipe had given him a shock, though. Phoebe
had
used the gift once, he remembered, not as a source of culinary inspiration but as a missile during one of their endless labyrinthine rows, hurling it across the kitchen from over her head with both hands, like a footballer slinging in a throw from the touchline. Tim had ducked successfully, then banged his head on the sharp corner of a cupboard as he straightened. In a reflex of regret, Phoebe had hurtled across the kitchen to croon over the bruise. Minutes later they were tearing at each other’s clothes and lumbering between the worktops
like first-timers, until Phoebe found anchorage against the kitchen table, clinging to it on her front, like a sunbather on a slab of rock. Christ, what a session. Christ.