Accidents Happen (13 page)

She waited and waited.

His message pinged back.

gabes coming, bye
.

Kate put her phone down, reeling at what had just happened.

This was good. This was a start. The fight she’d had with Jack this morning had been awful, but maybe they’d needed something like that to start talking again.

And then there was Jago Martin. She didn’t know why, but somehow, ever since she’d met that man this morning, something had felt different. Better. A tiny bit hopeful.

Just don’t think about it
, he’d said.

And she hadn’t. Not about a single statistic. She’d fought it all the way home.

Out of nowhere, an impulse overtook her. She ran upstairs, unlocked the padlock to the gate, grabbed it, and marched into the study. Without stopping to think, she unlocked and flung open the window.

It was time. Things had to change. Today.

With a grunt, Kate threw the padlock as far as she could into the garden. It landed on the trampoline and bounced up, knocking Jack’s football sideways.

‘Fuck off!’ she called out.

There was a sound to her left. A throat being cleared. She looked to see a man sitting in the garden next door, holding a beer bottle, looking up at her. He had very long legs splayed out in front of him, and was dressed in black with deathly pale skin and bad glasses. One of the students, presumably.

‘Oh. Sorry,’ she said. ‘Not you.’

‘OK then! Everybody’s happy!’ he said, raising his bottle. His accent was musical, each word sounding as if it were formed carefully to incorporate unfamiliar vowels. His top half was swaying a little as if he were drunk. He kept looking at her, as if he were trying to get into focus. Even from this distance she could see his eyes were an odd shade, a silvery pale blue. The colour of a husky’s.

‘Well. Bye,’ she said, withdrawing and shutting the window.

She locked it again and went to run a bath.

She lay in the bath for a while, using her hands to create waves of warm water to wash over her body, thinking about Jago Martin.

Jesus Christ. She was going for a drink with a man.

A man with interesting blue eyes who had awakened something in her today she couldn’t even begin to describe.

As she lay back in the bath, her eyes settled on her vanilla hand lotion that sat on the bathroom windowsill.

She blinked.

It was a quarter empty.

She had only bought it on Saturday yet it was almost a quarter empty. Surely she hadn’t used that much? Kate looked around the bathroom. Was it an old one she’d forgotten about? The familiar sense of unease settled on her.

Helen’s words came back to her about the casserole. ‘It had
not gone
.’

‘For God’s sake!
Stop this
,’ Kate muttered to herself. What was wrong with her? She had obviously just used more than she’d realized.

A door slammed downstairs, making her jump.

‘Mum?’

Jack was back.

‘I’m in the bath. Are you OK?’ she called out nervously, sitting up. She fought the urge to ask if Gabe had walked him home.

’Yeah,’ he shouted up. ‘Can I watch
The Simpsons
?’

‘Got any homework?’

‘No.’

‘OK. See you in a while.’

There was a pause.

‘Gabe walked back with me, by the way,’ he called.

She berated herself in the mirror. ‘Oh, OK.’

Ten minutes later, she went downstairs to see Jack lying on the sofa, the plaster still on his head. She waited to see if the intimacy from the texting earlier was still there but he just glanced up at her like normal, and back at the telly.

Probably too much to ask.

‘Hi.’

‘Hi.’

‘How’s your head?’

‘OK, thanks.’

‘Anyone ask?’

‘Ms Corrigan. I said it was my skateboard.’

‘Oh. Sorry,’ Kate said, ashamed.

‘It’s OK.’

The barrier was back up. She could see him tensing again. She sat uncertainly on the arm of the sofa, pretending to watch the television. Helen’s words came back to her: ‘You are his parent, not the other way round.’

Whatever she suspected now about the depth of Helen’s negative feelings towards her, on that point Helen had been right. Which is why Kate had lain in bed this morning, forcing herself to do what she never did: delve painfully into the bank of memories of their life before Hugo died. Trying to find something she could try. One flashback from the kitchen in their old house in Highgate had given her an idea.

Would he go for it, or was he too old now?

‘Jack?’

‘Hmm?’ he replied, grinning as Bart showed his bum to Principal Skinner.

‘I was thinking of making some flapjacks for Nana and Granddad for you to take this weekend. You don’t fancy helping, do you?’

He turned, unsure, and she saw him trying to judge whether she meant it or not.

‘Now?’

‘Hmm.’

‘Have we got stuff to make flapjacks?’

Kate shrugged uncertainly. It was so long since those Highgate days when Jack stood on a stool to reach the counter, the pair of them chatting as they baked cakes for Hugo’s lunchbox. ‘Isn’t it just butter and porridge and honey or something?’ she said.

Jack scratched his nose. ‘Golden syrup, I think, we used at school. We could get it from the corner shop.’

He stood up and she realized he was trying to hide a pleased smile forcing its way onto his face.

And then, to Kate’s delight, there he was, finally. In Jack’s expression, just for a second, as he went to turn off the television. The hidden grin. Just like in the photograph Saskia had taken on the terrace in Highgate as he tried not to laugh at her joke.

Hugo.

CHAPTER TEN

It was six-thirty the following evening by the time Saskia finished work in central Oxford and made her way slowly to Hubert Street.

She walked along, blinking, thinking crossly about work.

The contracts had come through from the marketing agency this morning, and she’d spent the day setting up an official Twitter account, relieved that Dad and the partners were finally listening to sense about needing to move with the times and promote the agency through social media. By lunchtime she had thirty-nine followers.

‘Look at that!’ Dad had exclaimed in the office, summoning a few others to look at Saskia’s screen, to her embarrassment. ‘Don’t know how you get the hang of these technical things so quickly, Sass.’

Saskia stomped towards Kate’s house. It was not that difficult. Dad could have done it himself, in no time. He wasn’t an idiot. She reached Hubert Street and looked up apprehensively.

At least Kate would be going out to her therapy session in north Oxford, but first they had to face each other.

They hadn’t spoken since Gate-gate, as Saskia was now calling Friday’s showdown. She hadn’t spoken to Mum about it, either. Just spent the weekend having a drink with her book group in the village and going through her divorce papers from Jonathan, desperately trying not to ring and beg him to reconsider.

Nervously, she rang the bell.

Kate opened the door. ‘Hi.’

‘Hi,’ Saskia said, meeting her eyes awkwardly – then did a double take.

Kate had transformed. She was wearing new dark skinny jeans that actually fitted her instead of the old size tens that hung from her loosely, and a tailored white summer shirt Saskia hadn’t seen before. She was wearing make-up, too. Just a touch, but it was there. Soft blush on her cheeks, a touch of eyeliner and mascara. Perhaps that was what had put a new light in her eyes. The startling little flecks of gold that had been tarnished for so long were sparkling again, as if given a good polish.

‘Come in,’ Kate said. Sass followed, taken aback. Kate’s dark hair had been blown dry and sat silkily just below her shoulders. From the back, the jeans reminded her what long legs Kate had. The shirt was doing wonders, too, to cover up her corset-thin waist, and the bony protuberances of her shoulders and arms. Saskia blinked. She hadn’t seen Kate look like this in years.

The old sense of insecurity awakened.

It had been difficult when Hugo arrived back from university all those years ago, enthralled with the self-assured girl from Shropshire he brought with him. Those first times the five of them went out together, Dad sweeping them into a restaurant or on a birthday visit to the theatre, Saskia had realized that it was now Kate who people – men and women – looked at before her.

Then after Hugo died, one day, it just stopped.

On the street, men had started to glance at Saskia first. Sometimes they didn’t look at Kate at all. It was as if Kate’s beauty had died with Hugo. Water drained from the flower.

Saskia followed Kate into the kitchen, uncertainly, and sat at the table.

‘So . . .?’ she said tentatively, watching Kate pull a bottle of white wine from the fridge.

‘What?’

‘Well . . .’

‘I don’t want to talk about it, Sass.’

Saskia sat back.

‘Look,’ she started awkwardly, ‘for the record, I was really cross with you about that fucking gate. I mean, for God’s sake, Kate. But I had no idea Mum was going to turn into Ninja Helen . . .’ She lifted her arm in a karate chop and crossed her eyes.

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ Kate repeated.

Saskia blinked hard and poured them each a glass of wine. Kate worked around her, clearing up the mess from tea and putting out a plate of pasta with pesto for Saskia that she’d kept warm in the oven. Saskia tried to gauge her mood.

‘Right – so how angry are you with me? On a scale to one to ten?’

‘To be honest, I don’t know what I feel.’ Kate sighed, sitting down and gulping her wine. ‘I just know I can’t talk about it with you right now.’

‘OK, but you’re going to see this woman. Tonight?’

Kate took another sip, put down her glass. ‘I’m getting help, yes.’

They surveyed each other.

Perhaps it was seeing her dressed like this, but Saskia found herself wanting the old Kate back in a way she hadn’t done for a long time.

She ran a finger down her wine glass, imagining telling Kate that she’d sat outside Jonathan’s office at lunchtime in a cafe just to catch a glimpse of him. Imagining telling Kate the truth about the mess of her marriage, and about how fed up she was working for Dad but could see no way out. For an agonizing second, she pictured curling up with Kate on the sofa, like in the old days, and talking till their honking laughter woke Hugo and he came downstairs, crumpled and cross, and told them to shut up.

But the chill emanating from Kate told her not even to think about it.

‘Is it all right to stay tonight?’ Saskia said in the end, motioning to her wine. ‘I left the car at the village station.’

Kate nodded. ‘Of course.’

‘Can I borrow some knickers tomorrow?’

Kate stood up and shut the dishwasher. ‘Help yourself – you know where they are.’

Saskia saw her pause. Kate swivelled round. ‘Actually, if you’re staying over, do you mind if I stay out for a while afterwards? One of the school mums is having a birthday drink at a bar on Cowley Road later?’

‘Yeah. Of course.’ Saskia tried to keep the surprise from her voice. Kate was going out? Well, at least that was something positive she could tell Mum. Kate seeing friends and going to therapy. It might defrost the situation before Helen had any more earth-shattering notions about taking Jack away.

Kate hung a cloth over the tap.

‘Right. I’d better go. I have to be there at half seven. Oh, and I’m not expecting anybody tonight, so can you not . . .’

Kate stopped mid-sentence, the words teetering on the end of her tongue.

‘. . . answer the front door when it’s dark,’ Saskia finished for her. ‘Don’t worry. I know the house rules.’

Kate turned away. ‘It’s not a house rule,’ she retorted over her shoulder.

Saskia shrugged. There was no point inflaming the situation.

Kate picked up her bag. ‘And can you make sure Jack’s in bed by nine?’

‘Yup. Will do.’

The mention of Jack made Saskia flick her eyes away from Kate guiltily. She had checked his Facebook before she’d left the office and seen how quickly he’d been swamped with friends. She’d also seen a quiz posted by someone called Sid entitled ‘Is Jack a dick – yes or no?’ with his friends, including Gabe, all apparently ‘jokingly’ agreeing that Jack was.

‘Thanks – see you later,’ said Kate, grabbing her jacket and finishing her wine in one gulp. She headed out of the kitchen and shouted, ‘Bye, Jack!’ into the sitting room before stopping by the front door to grab her bike helmet.

Saskia sipped from her own glass and turned.

Kate was checking her reflection in the hall mirror. It was so long since Saskia had seen her sister-in-law pay the slightest attention to her appearance that she couldn’t stop staring.

Tonight men would be glancing at Kate again, she realized. With a pang of sorrow, Saskia thought of Hugo. One day his self-assured girl from Shropshire would not be his any more. She would belong to another man.

She blinked, and turned away.

No. She had to be positive. Think of Jack and keep trying to support Kate – not wind her up. And the good thing was, it looked like the therapy was already helping.

It had not been an easy choice, but in the end Kate had picked the Hanley Arms, just a quarter of a mile from Hubert Street. Far enough away that Saskia wouldn’t spot her go in there and realize she was lying about the therapy, and close enough to home to be able to cycle back along the quiet pavements later tonight, and avoid thinking about traffic accident statistics.

She arrived to find Jago locking his newly fixed bike to a lamp post outside. ‘Good timing,’ he called. He looked up at the pub. ‘Your local?’

‘Kind of,’ she lied, locking her own bike to a railing. She had been in here once with Saskia. You had to know people in a pub for it to be your local. ‘New tyre, then?’ she ventured pointlessly.

‘Yup. Thanks for the recommendation.’ Jago smiled, opening the pub door open for her. She passed through with her own nervous ‘thanks’.

He was wearing jeans and a slim navy shirt over it that made his eyes look even bluer, and properly exposed the thin leather band around his neck. Suddenly, Kate felt completely tongue-tied. Her mind went blank. What had she been thinking? She couldn’t think of one word to say to this man. This was awful.