One Step Too Far (3 page)

“Nah, you must have the wrong house, sorry.” She goes to shut the door.

“Please,” I say. “It was, er, Castro’s room I think, apparently he moved out today. Is there anyone else I can talk to who might know?”

The girl begins to look annoyed. “There’s no-one here called Castro. I’ve told you, you’ve got the wrong house.” She shuts the door in my face.

As I turn away humiliated hot tears are seeping down my face. I stagger under the weight of my bag and put it down on the pavement in front of the hedge, where no-one from the house can see me. I feel like I’m going to pass out, from the heat and the hunger and the homelessness, from yet another loss. I sit on my bag and put my head between my legs, waiting for the swimming to pass, wanting to go home, wanting my husband. I hear the front door open and a girl is running down the path, calling for somebody called Catherine. I keep my head down, unresponsive, and then there’s someone standing above me, so finally I look up. I look into the face of an angel and she says, “Are you here for Fidel’s room? Oh babe, don’t cry, she’s a miserable cow, just ignore her. Come on in, I’ll fix you a drink, it looks like you need it.” And that’s how I meet Angel, my angel, my salvation.

4

Emily met Ben on a parachute course, of all things. She hardly noticed him at first, he seemed so quiet, and when they were put in the same car for the trip to the tiny airport they didn’t talk much. The other passenger was Jeremy, a tall thin pierced boy who seemed way too anxious and uncoordinated to throw himself out of a plane safely, and as they made the hour-long journey she kept wondering how she’d got herself into this situation. Her friend Dave had persuaded her, and it was meant to be for charity, but still, now that it came to it jumping out of a plane seemed like a crazy thing to do. And why was she crammed in the back of Dave's bashed up old car with long folded-up Jeremy? Shouldn’t he be in the front where there was much more leg room? It occurred to her then that perhaps Ben was embarrassed of her, maybe that was why he’d insisted on sitting in the passenger seat – and then she told herself not to be silly, no-one was ever interested in her, although the truth was actually the opposite. When she noticed an ugly red boil on Ben’s neck, just below his hairline, she felt sorry for him – he kept shifting his jacket to try to cover it up, but he wouldn’t just go for it and put the lapel up, it would be too obvious. She knew he could feel her staring at it, so she tried not to look, but somehow it was distracting her from the thought of what she was meant to be doing soon, and the more she tried to ignore it the more she felt her eyes drawn back to it, or maybe back to him, she realised afterwards. She shivered although the car was fumey-hot, there was something wrong with the heating. She wasn’t feeling herself at all.

The airport was hidden down country lanes behind tall hedgerows amongst green and yellow fields. As they drove through the entrance the little planes looked cow-like, herded together as if for company. There were corrugated-roofed sheds laid out on three sides of a rectangle – one for packing the parachutes, one for keeping the planes at night and one that housed a recreation area for the hours and hours parachutists seemed to spend waiting for the cloud to lift. Emily was too nervous now to even think about playing games and instead she excused herself and sat in the corner with a mug of stewed tea and her book – thank God she’d thought to bring one with her, sometimes reading was the only thing that could distract her. Her friend Dave came over and sat with her and tried to cheer her up with a succession of terrible jokes (“What’s the fastest cake in the world? Scone. What do you call a fish with no eyes? Fsh,” etcetera) but although she tried to laugh she almost blamed him for getting her into this and so he took the hint and left her to it. She sat quietly, feeling trapped and lonely while the other would-be parachutists played pool or scrabble and seemed to enjoy the boredom. She may even have made her excuses and left if she’d been in her own car, but she was stranded in the middle of a field somewhere in the Cheshire countryside, she could hardly walk home, and anyway she had collected so much money for charity she really had to go through with it now, she couldn’t let everyone down. She gripped her book tighter and tried to concentrate on the story, tried not to think, but her mind was catapulting – this wasn’t a practice, she wouldn’t be jumping off a platform in a sports hall this time, she’d be leaping out into air, and it all felt too real now she'd seen the planes.

“Hey Emily, d'you want to play pool?” She looked up to see Dave looking eagerly at her, his stubble over-long like cut up spider-legs, his hair greasy, his ever-present leather jacket open over a black heavy metal T-shirt.

“No thanks, I’m OK, honestly Dave,” she said, but he looked unconvinced. “Don’t worry about me, I’m at a good bit in my book.”

“Go on, you can’t just sit there all day, it’ll be a ball, ha ha. You and me against Jeremy and Ben.”

Emily paused and looked across to the pool table, which was wonky and threadbare, in time to see Ben pot an impossible looking red, but he barely reacted, just moved around to the other side to take his next shot.

“I’m rubbish at pool, I’ll let you down.”

“No, you’re fine," said Dave. "Come on,” and he grabbed Emily’s hand and pulled her out of her seat. Ben glanced up from his next shot as they came across to the table, before looking down quickly. Maybe he did like her, she thought again, but immediately told herself she was imagining it – and anyway she wouldn’t really be interested, she tended to steer clear of relationships, she left that kind of thing to her sister.

Once Ben had finished thrashing Jeremy, who was so tall he had to bend his knees to take his shots, they started their doubles game. When it was Emily's turn she leaned over and aimed for a ball down the other end of the table, but she scuffed her shot and the white ball skewed lazily off-course, just missing the yellow she’d gone for.

“Sorry, Dave,” she said, but he just grinned and she handed the cue to Ben. For a split second they were both holding it, and it felt peculiarly intimate, so she let go quickly as he muttered thanks and looked away. He aimed at the easiest-looking red, but although he’d been potting everything before, he misjudged it and it bounced lamely out the pocket.

“Damn,” he said, blushing a little, and went to hand the cue to Dave.

“Two shots,” Dave reminded him, so Ben went again and although this shot was even easier he missed it too. Dave took the cue and went on a massive potting spree, showing off, and as Jeremy was useless anyway and Ben seemed to have gone completely off the boil, when it came to Emily’s turn all she needed to do was pot the black to win. She felt odd still and wasn’t sure what it was – fear of the jump itself, embarrassment about Ben’s apparent nerves around her – but she took aim and although it was tricky and she got the angle wrong, the table’s crazy slant sent the ball dribbling inexorably into the far end corner.

“Whoops, sorry,” she said.

“Yes!” shouted Dave and he went to hug her but decided at the last minute to high-five her instead, and Jeremy said well done and Ben smiled and looked sheepish, and then he wandered off to the canteen.

As the day wore on the cloud hung stubbornly, and the temperature dropped as if it would rain. Emily had retreated back to her corner with her book and yet another cup of tea, while Ben and Jeremy spent ages playing chess and Dave got whipped at table tennis by Jemima, a little ball of a girl who’d done over 300 jumps apparently. When Emily looked at her watch for the umpteenth time and saw it was gone four she put down the book and for the first time felt a glimmer of hope – maybe it was getting too late for them to jump now, it would be getting dark soon. Where was Dave – she’d go and ask him if they could think about leaving, surely there wasn't any point hanging round for much longer. Just as she stood up, feeling better at last, the head instructor appeared at the shed doorway and he was pumped up, as if they were at the Somme and he was about to send them over the top. “Cloud’s lifted,” he shouted. “Get kitted up
now
, quick!” As everyone ran like excited children Emily dragged behind, her legs feeling loose, as if they weren’t quite attached to her body. Ben was already there, seemingly in charge, and he was more confident now, less shy and geeky, almost handsome in his black jumpsuit. He helped her into her harness, turned her round and hoisted the parachute onto her back.

“Bend over,” he said. He tightened the straps at the top of her legs and as she stood up, somewhere in that 90 degree trajectory, she fell in love.

Emily didn’t see Ben for another three months after that. She’d flung herself out of a plane with the memory of his fingers on her thighs, and she’d been shy, embarrassed afterwards. He was so unsuitable really, a chess-playing parachuting accountant, and she shuddered at what her sister Caroline would make of him. In the car on the way home, she'd gazed at his boil lovingly now, willing to lean forward and kiss it, convinced he could feel her lips hot on his neck in his mind. But when they reached Chester he didn’t even look at her, simply said bye over his shoulder, and she got out the car and stood on the pavement, hesitant, until Dave revved the engine impatiently, and reluctantly she shut the door. As the car drove off, black smoke spewing, she stood watching the clouds dissipate, looking down the now empty road for long stretched out seconds, before she shook her head with frustration and turned away.

Emily assumed she’d bump into Ben at work, but so far she hadn’t – nearly 3,000 people worked in the building, she'd discovered. She even considered another parachuting weekend, but held off (please God no), confident each Monday morning that
this
week she’d see him. His apparent disappearance made her more infatuated, more determined – which was quite unlike her – but then she’d never been smitten before. She even found she grew to enjoy the waiting – she’d wake up in anticipation, relish the daily thrill of scouring the basement canteen for his curly dark head, glance around reception on her way in and out, nerves on high alert, every day offering up countless possibilities for them to meet, every day thwarted.

Emily awoke late on a dark February morning where the rain was so heavy deep puddles gleamed orange from the street lamps. Either her alarm hadn’t gone off, or she’d slept through it, she wasn’t sure which, she was so hungover. Her head was killing her, but she had to go in – she had an important meeting that afternoon, and besides it was Friday, only one more day to get through before the weekend. She made herself a strong tea, ate a banana and took some pills, then stood for 15 minutes under the shower and although by the time she came out she felt marginally better, she was running horrendously late now. She threw on the easiest outfit, a plain red belted dress and boots, scraped her wet hair back and didn’t bother with makeup, she could do that when she got to the office. She put on the orange anorak she usually wore for walking and it looked terrible with the dress, it was too short and the wrong colour, but she didn’t care, it was raining for God’s sake.

By the time she parked her car an hour later she was still feeling wretched. She didn’t feel ready to face work, let alone face Ben walking towards her, away from the office, takeaway coffee in hand, girl in tow. This was not one of her many scenarios of how they might meet. She panicked, blushed, said hi and hurried off. He was more attractive than she remembered – his hair had grown, his suit was well-cut, shoes polished, dark brown wool tie not quite that of a newly qualified accountant. He hadn’t seemed particularly pleased to see her – friendly but unmoved. The girl was not his girlfriend, she knew that much – not his type, not her! She’d convinced herself that once they did finally see each other again, it would all just happen – they’d stop, have a chat, arrange a coffee, and that would be it. Instead she’d looked about as awful as she possibly could have, and he’d been with someone else. It was a shambles.

For three months Emily had been fine, but now she wasn’t – she just couldn’t wait any longer. She threw off her revolting anorak, flung it on the back of her chair, sat down and considered her options. Visit the 17
^th
floor expressly to see him – wander about until she found his desk, ask to talk to him privately, trawl around for an empty room, all eyes on them? Hideous. Pretend she had other business on the 17
^th
floor, saunter up and say hello as she passed? Too contrived – and as she didn’t know where he sat she could hardly saunter. Look up his number and call him? Better, less public. Or send him an email? The easiest but in a way the most tortuous – what if he didn’t reply? What if he didn’t get it? She needed to start this right now, today.

She looked up his email address in the directory. “Hi Ben,” she wrote. “Good to see you today. Will you have a drink with me tonight? It’s important. Let me know, either reply to this mail or here’s my number. Thanks, Emily.”

She hit send and sat back in her chair, relieved. She’d done it, it was happening at last. She felt absolute resolve that she’d done the right thing, after all it was obvious he’d liked her. She checked her schedule – nothing apart from the meeting after lunch that she’d come in for, he’d have called her by then.

By five o’clock Emily was desolate. She’d been so convinced there’d be an email waiting for her back at her desk that when there wasn’t the doubt flooded in. What the
hell
had she been thinking, being so forward? She re-read her email: “It’s important.” OK, could be, maybe she needed to talk to him. About what? About parachuting of course. “Have a drink?” The connotation was unmistakable. My God, he’d think she was a maniac, a stalker. And anyway he had a girlfriend, she’d seen them together – and even if he was single she’d looked so utterly crap that morning he couldn’t possibly have fancied her.

“EMILY?” Maria, who sat next to her, leaned over and made exaggerated crosses with her hands across Emily’s face. Emily looked up, stricken. “Are you deaf? Can I borrow your stapler, someone’s had mine. Hey, what’s up?”