What Might Have Been (10 page)

16

E
van turned his collar up against the chill wind that seemed to have started the moment he left the hospital, and began the short walk back towards Bermondsey Street, trying desperately to analyse his brief conversation with Grace. He couldn’t work out why she’d seemed so angry with him, almost as if she assumed he’d given Sarah the old slept-with-once, never-called-again routine – but surely she’d have told Grace that hadn’t been the case? Though while Sarah hadn’t seemed that happy to see him either, she also hadn’t seemed that happy,
full stop
. Admittedly, Saturday
morning
supermarket shopping was never the most fun of activities, but surely doing anything with your fiancé a week before your wedding should at least put a smile on your face?

He realised he might be clutching at straws. Trying to see problems where there weren’t any. But straws were all he had at the moment, and as he hurried along Tanner Street, he realised he’d grab frantically onto as many as he could if it gave him the slightest chance of getting Sarah back.

Passing the funky new warehouse conversions that overlooked the viaduct, he rounded the corner into Riley Road and walked into the old factory building. As usual, he unleashed a quick Rocky-like one-two combination as he passed the punch-bag that Mick, the car park’s owner, had hung up next to the toilets, then rubbed his knuckles as he weaved his way through the selection of Ferraris and Aston Martins that the City boys didn’t dare park on Bermondsey’s streets. Even before he’d gone to the States, Evan had begun parking here overnight too, after some scary-looking teenagers had removed the badge from the Mercedes’ bonnet one evening outside his flat, then tried to sell it back to him with menaces the next day.

He reached the white-painted six-by-four shed that served as an office and spied Mick sitting inside, reading the paper, so he rapped loudly on the door-frame.

‘Afternoon.’

‘Bleedin’ Nora!’ Mick threw his copy of
The Sun
on his desk and stood up. ‘Look who it isn’t!’

Evan smiled. Mick always spoke like he was auditioning for a Guy Ritchie movie – which made him a rarity nowadays in this part of London. ‘Nice to see you too,’ he said.

‘Released you early, did they?’

Mick was looking him up and down, and Evan nodded. ‘Time off for good behaviour,’ he said, playing along with the joke.

‘Christ on a bike!’ Mick clapped him on the shoulder. ‘How was it?’

‘Fine. Good, actually.’

‘Good? But it must have been tough, yeah? Being, you know,
away
for so long?’

Evan shrugged. In truth, the only tough part had been being away from Sarah. ‘A bit.’

‘A bit?’ Mick widened his eyes. ‘I ain’t sure I could have done it.’

Evan frowned. He couldn’t remember telling Mick what it was he’d been doing for the past year, partly because he hadn’t wanted to sound like he was bragging, but particularly because he didn’t want him to charge through the nose for looking after the car, though maybe word had gotten around.

‘It had its moments.’

‘I geddit.’ Mick tapped the side of his nose with his index
finger. ‘Y
ou don’t want to talk about it.’

‘I don’t mind. It’s not as glamorous as you might think, though.’

‘Glamorous?’

Mick looked confused, and Evan laughed. ‘Yeah. Basically all you’re doing is staring at the guys’ backsides every evening, thankful that they let you play with them. Then, as long as you remember to blow when you’re supposed to . . .’ He stopped talking, as Mick had taken a half-step backwards.

‘What was it you did?’ he asked, eventually.

‘I played the sax.’

‘And they gave you a year for that?’

Evan stared at him. Maybe it was the jet lag, but they seemed to be talking at cross-purposes. ‘Where do you think I’ve been, exactly?’

Mick shrugged. ‘That bloke you used to ’ang around with
mentioned
something about the police, and that you’d be gone for a year. He seemed pretty pissed off about you being, like I said,
away
, so I didn’t want to ask.’

‘What bloke?’

‘The bald geezer. Owns that jazz club under the arches.’

‘Mel?’

‘That’s the fellah.’

‘And you assumed I was in
prison
?’

Mick stuffed his hands into his pockets. ‘Nuffink to be ashamed of. We’ve all done a bit of time in our, you know,
time
.’

Evan shook his head in disbelief. ‘I was away on tour, Mick. In the U.S. I’m a musician.’

‘Oh. Right.’ Mick nodded slowly. ‘The
Police
. Not the, er . . .’ He cleared his throat, obviously keen to change the subject. ‘So, you’ll be wanting ’er back, then?’

Evan did a double take, before realising Mick must be referring to the Merc. He’d never known why cars like his were always referred to in the feminine.
Maybe it was because they were high maintenance
, Mel had suggested once.

‘Yeah. Have you been taking good care of it? I mean,
her
?’

Mick looked mortally offended. ‘Of course.’

‘And taking her for a spin?’

He nodded. ‘Once a week, like clockwork. Just, you know, round the block, an’ that.’

From the shifty look on Mick’s face, Evan supposed that the odd trip might have been a little more than round the block, but he didn’t want to ask what ‘and that’ had actually involved. Mick had been doing him a favour, and as long as a blurred picture of the car speeding away from a bank robbery hadn’t appeared on
Crimewatch
in his absence, he knew he ought to be grateful.

‘Great. Thanks.’

‘Don’t mention it.’ Mick picked up a clipboard, selected a bunch of keys from a hook inside the shed, then led Evan over to a space in the far corner occupied by a Mercedes-shaped tarpaulin. ‘Ta-da!’ he said, grabbing the corner and whipping the cover off like a game-show hostess.

Evan gazed at the gleaming chrome, the immaculate bodywork. The car still looked as good, even after a year. Just as Sarah had, he found himself thinking.

‘Thanks, Mick. So, what’s the damage?’

‘Ain’t no damage. Whaddaya take me for?’

‘Sorry. No, I meant how much . . .’ Evan saw Mick was joking and stopped talking.

‘Well, how long you been . . .’ Mick winked. ‘
Away
for?’

‘A year, give or take.’

‘A year. Right.’ Mick peered at the clipboard, leafing through the attached A4 sheets, then frowned when he couldn’t find any reference to Evan’s car. ‘What did we say again?’

‘You said that if I let you take it for a drive once a week, you’d keep it here for free.’

For a moment, Mick seemed to be trying to remember whether that was actually the arrangement, then he let out a short laugh. ‘Good one,’ he said, pulling a pencil from behind his ear and licking the point. ‘Well, normal rate’s twelve quid a day.’

‘Oh-kay . . .’ Evan did a quick calculation in his head, and his stomach lurched – the car wasn’t worth much more than the figure he came up with. ‘So . . .’

Mick jotted some figures down on his clipboard. ‘A monkey all right with you?’

‘Mick, I’m sorry, I don’t have my Cockney Rhyming Slang
dictionary
with me.’

‘A monkey.’ Mick rolled his eyes. ‘Five hundred nicker.’

‘And “nicker” would be “pounds”, right?’

‘Want me to check them figures again? Maybe I underestimated . . .’

‘No. Sorry. That’s great.’ Evan grinned as he reached into his pocket and removed his wallet. ‘Credit card OK?’

Mick laughed, even harder than before, then doubled over in a coughing fit. ‘Pay me when you can,’ he wheezed, his face a deep shade of purple.

He tossed Evan the keys, then started back towards his shed, but as Evan unlocked the car door and climbed into the driver’s seat, Mick reappeared at the window.

‘Oh yeah, I almost forgot. I saw that bird the other day.’

Evan looked up sharply. ‘What, er, bird?’

‘You know. The one I caught you playing tonsil tennis with in ’ere a while back. The Yank.’

‘And?’

Mick shrugged. ‘I’ve seen ’er a couple of times. Out with some ponce. Never looks that happy. And always seems disappointed when she clocks me behind the wheel and not you.’ Mick sucked in his belly and puffed out his chest, then coughed violently as a result. ‘Can’t imagine why.’

Evan grinned, heartened slightly by Mick’s observation. ‘
Neither
can I.’

‘You off to pick her up?’

Evan nodded as he turned the key and the engine rumbled into life. That was exactly what he was off to do.

He waved goodbye to Mick, then gunned the car out of the garage and into Tanner Street, enjoying being back behind the wheel. He’d bought the Mercedes on a whim when some session work he’d done for what he’d found out afterwards had been a porn soundtrack had unexpectedly paid him some royalties – not that he’d needed a car, and in truth, it was a bit of a liability in this part of London, but he’d seen it parked on Morocco Road one day, a handwritten ‘For Sale’ sign taped to the inside of the windscreen, and had fallen in love straight away. It was older than he was, but seemingly in better condition, its flawless white bodywork lovingly restored at great expense by one of the previous owners. The four-and-a-half-litre engine produced an almost musical note through its stainless-steel exhaust but drank petrol at an alarming rate, although to tell the truth, Evan hadn’t given any of the technical specifications much thought. He’d simply liked what he’d seen, and for most of the major decisions he’d made in his life, that had always been enough.

And Evan had loved it – it was a cool car to cruise around
London
in, especially when he put the roof down, although he didn’t dare do the same with his foot – he couldn’t afford the fuel or the fines. What’s more, he loved the reaction he got from other motorists; the appreciative glances, other drivers stopping to let him out into the traffic – everyone except BMW drivers, funnily enough – but then again, his car was a classic, and people appreciated something classic, whether it was a car, a piece of music, or a beautiful woman. Most importantly, Sarah had seemed to like it, and that fact alone had been enough of an incentive for Evan to keep it while he’d been away.

He hadn’t driven for the best part of a year, and even though the London traffic was too stop-start for him to get out of second gear, as his confidence returned, he began throwing the car from lane to lane, and accelerating into gaps that were barely there. He toyed with the idea of putting the roof down, but in a car of this age that was a two-man job. Besides, it wasn’t the warmest of days, and Evan always thought it was only ever posers who drove around in convertibles when the sun wasn’t out.

By chance, he found himself at the end of Sarah’s road and, on a whim, drove along it, wondering whether he should call in. He could tell her he’d been passing and had thought he’d drop by to ‘shoot the breeze’, as she might say, but he quickly decided against it: two instances in as many hours might be seen as stalking, plus he suspected she might need a little time to get used to the idea of him being back.

He spotted a parking space outside her flat and almost changed his mind, even slowing down to measure the Mercedes’ length against it, until he noticed David’s BMW parked in the adjacent bay. Suddenly panicked, he hunkered down behind the wheel and pressed his right foot flat to the floor, and as the car leapt forward, a red warning light flickered briefly on the dashboard.

And Evan couldn’t help feeling that was strangely appropriate.

17

S
arah held her breath as she watched the Mercedes through her window, wondering whether Evan was stalking her. The roof was up, so she couldn’t tell if it was him or the guy from the quaint old parking lot who spoke like some east-end mobster and who she’d seen driving it a couple of times this past year, but given what had happened earlier, it was surely too much of a coincidence that it should be driving down her road. She could only suspect that someone had been looking after it for him while he was away. Maybe he’d been assuming the same thing about her.

She half-hid behind a curtain as the car cruised slowly along her street, admiring the way the sun glinted off the polished chrome bumpers, and felt a surge of affection that surprised her. The first time she’d seen it after Evan had left, her heart had leapt and she’d found herself hoping he’d given up on the tour and come back home. In her excitement she’d nearly stepped out in front of it, almost forgetting David was with her, then the driver had noticed her staring, and she’d had to look away before he’d had a chance to pull over and talk to her.
That
would have been awkward.

She peered at the number plate, positive it was him. After all, there couldn’t be that many white convertible Mercedes in this part of London – not old ones, at least. There weren’t that many old vehicles, full stop, given the generous car allowances the banks tended to give their employees, and no-one she worked with would ever want to own the
oldest
car on the block.

Sarah had found Evan’s obsession with his car charming, particularly in a country where the miserable climate meant you could hardly ever use a convertible anyway, though she could see why he loved it. Unlike David’s BMW, which was like piloting a rocket-propelled armchair through the streets, the Merc had real
character
. She’d loved driving it that night, plus it looked cool, and most importantly, so had Evan when she’d seen him waiting outside her office before their lunch in Postman’s Park, leaning against the fender like some fifties movie star.

But there had been something else too: For some reason, it had reminded her of home. Maybe the shape, maybe the size, but there was just something American about this German classic ca
r –
though it had taken her a while before she’d remembered what it was: Sue Ellen had driven one in
Dallas
, one of the rare happy memories she had about her mother from childhood, watching re-runs with her before she’d done a runner herself
.
When she’d remarked on this to Evan driving back that afternoon, he hadn’t
had a
clue what she’d been talking about – or so he’d said. But he’d loved the car with a passion. And that was one of the things
she’d reall
y liked about him.

The Mercedes slowed outside her apartment building, and Sarah was surprised to find herself willing it to pull into the empty parking space behind David’s BMW. Then she heard the engine rev loudly and it shot off down the road and out of sight, leaving a patch of oil on the road, and it was then that Sarah had known for sure it had been him. She stared out into the street for a few more moments, then moved away from the window. Had he lost the nerve to come in, perhaps worried that David might have been there? She couldn’t be sure. But one thing she knew: she wasn’t ready to face him yet. Not until she’d had a chance to think what his return meant. Or rather, what it meant to her.

The sound of the doorbell made her jump, and she rushed nervously back to the window, but there was no sign of the Mercedes in the street, so she made her way over to the video entry-phone, relaxing when she realised Grace had simply forgotten her keys. Was it going to be like this for the next few days, Sarah wondered, every time the buzzer went, or whenever her mobile rang? Was her heartbeat going to quicken at the possibility it might be Evan?

Cursing to herself, she let her flatmate in, wondering whether the disappointment she’d felt when she realised it
wasn’t
him was significant.

‘What’s going on?’ said Grace, unbuttoning her coat and throwing it onto the sofa.

‘What do you mean?’

Grace rolled her eyes. ‘You know what I mean.
Evan
.’

‘What about him?’

‘He came to see me at work. Said he wanted to talk.’

‘What about?’

‘You and David, of course.’ Grace marched into the kitchen, though Sarah was close behind her. ‘Though I’m guessing he really meant you and him.’

‘What did he say?’

‘I got the feeling he wanted me to help him.’

‘Help him?’

‘Get you back.’

Sarah caught her breath. So that
was
the reason he’d returned. ‘He never really had me, Grace.’

Grace let out a short laugh. ‘You and I both know that’s not true,’ she said, filling the kettle with one hand while simultaneously removing a couple of mugs from the cupboard with the other, and Sarah leaned against the refrigerator and silently watched her friend make tea. It still struck her as odd that the British thought this drink was a necessary accompaniment to any serious conversation or stressful situation – back where she came from, it was more likely to be a Jack Daniels, and boy, could she do with one of those now.

‘What am I going to do?’ she said, as Grace placed a steaming mug on the table in front of her.

‘Do?’ Grace sat in the chair opposite, blowing on the top of her tea until it was cool enough to risk a sip, as if she couldn’t
contemplate
the question until she’d had some. ‘Were you in love with him?’

‘How could I have been? We weren’t together long enough to . . .’

‘But you were considering leaving David for him?’

‘That’s not fair. David and I had only just started seeing each other.’

‘Even so. You seemed pretty into Evan.’

‘I . . . well, okay, I could see how I might have started to, you know,
develop
feelings for him, obviously.’ Sarah stared into her mug, wondering when she should remove the fast-stewing teabag. The two of them had shared a flat for fourteen months, and Sarah hadn’t ever had the heart to tell Grace she was more of a coffee girl. ‘But I haven’t seen him for a year. Besides, how can you love someone who you hardly know?’

Grace shrugged. ‘He does.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Evan loves someone he hardly knows.’

‘How could you possibly think that?’

‘He said.’

Sarah caught her breath. ‘People say a lot of things,’ she said, after a moment.

‘I saw his face, Sarah. He meant it.’

‘How could he possibly?’ said Sarah, indignantly.

Grace held both hands up, as if at gunpoint. ‘That’s hardly for me to say, is it? But ask yourself something – what would you have done if Evan had stayed?’

Sarah warmed her hands on her mug as she thought about this. The truth was, she didn’t know – couldn’t imagine, even – what a normal relationship with Evan would have been like. The sex had been, well,
mind-blowing
, but even after such a brief time together, she suspected they had more than just a physical connection – they’d seemed to have a similar sense of humour; their shared love of jazz would have been something to explore . . .

‘I don’t know, Grace,’ she said, unwilling to dwell upon what might have been. ‘It never seemed like an option.’

‘It is now.’

‘Are you asking me or telling me?’

‘I think you know the answer to that.’

Sarah slid her mug out of the way, then rested her elbows on the table and put her head in her hands. ‘It’s not as simple as that.’

‘Well, maybe it should be.’

‘It
can’t
. Not with, you know,
Saturday
.’

Grace gave her a tight-lipped smile. ‘What about David?’

‘What about him?’

‘I’m assuming you love him?’

‘I guess so.’

‘You
guess so
?’ Grace raised one eyebrow. ‘Have you told him about you and Evan?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Don’t you think you’d better?’

‘Why?’

‘Why do you think, Sarah?’

‘That’s . . .’ Sarah swallowed hard. She hadn’t told Grace the whole story, and now perhaps wasn’t the time. ‘Well, it’s not important anymore. And what is there to tell, really? The facts are that Evan and I had a . . . well, a brief fling, just when David and I had started dating. So what?’

‘How do you think he’d feel if he ever found out?’

‘How’s that going to happen if I don’t tell him?’

‘Because Evan could.’

‘He wouldn’t.’

‘Why not? I might, in his situation.’ Grace sipped her tea. ‘And how do you feel about him being back? Especially if he’s come back for you.’

‘I don’t know.’ Sarah stared helplessly up at the kitchen ceiling. ‘Flattered. Confused . . .’

‘Which one is it?’

‘It’s . . .’ Sarah thought for a moment. ‘Both.’

‘And why are you confused?’

‘Why do you think?’

Grace shrugged. ‘Well, if I was playing devil’s advocate, I’d say it’s because you had doubts about getting married.’

‘Yeah, well, it’s a big step, isn’t it?’

‘And are these doubts about getting married, or marrying David?’

‘Are you trying to psychoanalyze me?’

Grace grinned. ‘Maybe.’

Sarah sighed. ‘Grace, what woman doesn’t have doubts about the man she’s marrying? That’s just the way it works, isn’t it? None of them are perfect, and so eventually you’ve just got to make a
decision
. Go for it. Decide whether you can live with them. At work, we’d call it a cost/benefit analysis . . .’ Sarah stopped talking, because Grace’s expression was turning into one of horror.

‘Is that how you really feel about him?’ she asked. ‘David, I mean.’

‘I don’t know. Not really. Well, perhaps a little.’ Sarah made a face. ‘I mean, they’ve all got their faults, haven’t they?’

Grace took another sip from her mug, then she smiled. ‘I
suppose
so.’

‘Especially Evan,’ continued Sarah.

Though long after her tea had gone cold, she still couldn’t think what they might be.