Accidents Happen (14 page)

It didn’t help when she heard jeers coming from inside the pub.

‘What do you want to drink, Kate?’ Jago said, walking up to the bar.

‘Um, white wine, thanks,’ she muttered, glancing to the source of the noise. It was a group of five or so men in football shirts, their bodies and faces moving jerkily, en masse, as they swore and bantered with each other, and threw back pints and laughed in ferocious, loud cackles.

She was so occupied with the men that she didn’t realize what she had done at first. It was only when Jago turned and asked ‘Ah – Chardonnay or Sauvignon Blanc?’ that she realized she was about to order her second glass of white wine tonight. Which would push her daily limit over three units and increase her chances of cancer.

‘Sorry. Actually, could I change that, could I have a soda and . . .’ she started to say, then saw Jago’s face. His intelligent eyes watched her earnestly.

Just don’t think about it. That’s what he had said. Don’t even think about it.

‘A what?’ he asked.

She summoned up Jack’s anxious face. ‘No, actually, either’s fine,’ Kate muttered. ‘I’ll get a table.’

Quickly, she moved as far away as she could from the men, who were watching a raised television near the bar. She wound her way through ten empty tables till she could go no further, and stopped at the toilets.

She saw Jago turn to place the drinks on a nearby table, then look up to see her miles away. He shot her a playful look.

‘Is this a special table?’ he asked, wandering over.

‘No . . . Sorry. I just thought it was quieter.’

He sat down and looked around. ‘No. It’s fine. Excellent for the toilet, and –’ he pointed at the wall – ‘the fire extinguisher.’

She smiled, despite herself. ‘Have you been teaching this afternoon?’

He nodded and regaled her with a story about a super-smart but cocky student of his who he had noticed banging his knee up and down, then discovered was wearing earphones under his beanie during a lecture.

‘And, to cap it all, when I question him about it, he says he’s listening to a recording of my lecture from last week, cheeky little bastard. Anyway, tell me about the project you’re working on.’

Kate tried to gather her thoughts. But they kept slipping to the other side of the bar. ‘Get in there!’ one of the football fans growled, standing up and throwing one arm at the television screen, as his mates yelled behind him, then clapped.

‘It’s a house in Islington that the developer I work with, David, is going to turn back from three flats into a house . . .’ she started, forcing herself to recall details about plans they had to restore the stonework at the front, trying to ignore the way each shout made a band of stress tighten around her chest.

‘So, what kind of work placements do you give these kids?’ Jago asked politely.

She looked up to see one of the football fans staggering towards them, eyes bleary and unfocused. As he went through the door into the toilet beside them, he burped loudly.

Gripping her palms together tightly, Kate tried to ignore it. She tried to explain to Jago about how the kids had a chance to work with each member of the renovation team, from the architect to the craftspeople such as the stonemasons, to the high-spec interior decoration at the end, to see which area of the renovation they enjoyed. And how, if they really took to it, the foundation would sponsor them through A levels, and then maybe a degree in a relevant subject, such as architectural design or art history – Kate’s own subject at university – or, if they were really committed, even architecture.

In turn Jago asked some intelligent questions, which she tried to answer. But it was no good. Every instinct was telling her to get out this pub. To run as far from these men as she could.

She fixed her eyes on Jago, trying desperately to ignore them. The conversation turned back to his experience of publishing a book, and then to his lectures at Oxford.

‘Term finishes next week. Then there’s a summer school I’ll teach for a while before I head back out to the States in August for a month.’

‘You FUCK-ing WANK-er!’

Kate jumped. The largest of the men had leaped out of his seat and was shaking his fist at the telly, while the others jeered in a chorus. She desperately tried to remember what Jago had just been saying.

‘What are you doing in the States?’

‘I’ve got a bit of personal stuff to tie up in North Carolina where I was teaching and doing research, then I’m heading over to Utah with friends to do some mountain-biking.’

‘Oh,’ she said, looking at the men again. ‘So, where did you say you lived in Oxford?’

‘I’ve got a room at Balliol.’

‘At Balliol? Really? Is it nice?’

He drained the bottom of his pint. ‘It is nice. All stone steps and bay windows where I can stand and smoke a pipe. If I actually smoked a pipe.’

Kate nodded, distracted. ‘So is your room nice?’ she repeated inadvertently, glancing back over at the football fans.

When Jago didn’t reply, she turned back to see him watching her.

‘What?’ she said.

‘Kate. What’s going on?’

She froze.

‘Why did you really choose this table?’

‘It’s quiet.’

‘You mean, not near those guys?’

She shrugged. ‘They’re quite noisy – don’t you think?’

All of a sudden, she felt a little drunk. A little out of control. It had been so long since she’d drunk two glasses of wine.

Jago leaned forward onto his elbows. ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you look really nervous.’

Kate bit her lip. Horrified, she felt the tears back again, trying to break through. She swallowed hard to make them go away.

‘Do you know these guys? Because you look terrified of them.’

She dropped her eyes, defeated.

‘No.’

‘So – what is it?’

She shrugged. ‘They just seem a little aggressive.’

‘Do they?’ He looked over. ‘So, you’re worried about what they
might
do, rather than what they have done.’

Kate glanced up, surprised.

‘Yes.’

She dropped her eyes again, ashamed. It was time to go. She was a disgrace, a mess. She couldn’t even have a quiet drink in a pub without this bloody nonsense ruining everything.

‘Kate. Here.’ She looked up to see Jago standing up. He was holding out his hand. She took it. It was dry and warm.

She stood up, trying to hold herself together. He understood, she realized with gratitude. He was taking her out of here to another pub.

Jago led her through to bar towards the front door. However, as they reached it, to her bewilderment, he kept going towards the men.

Kate’s heart skipped a painful beat, and she began to fall back. But Jago kept leading her firmly.

With her hand in his grasp, Jago approached the largest of the group. Kate struggled but he wouldn’t let go. The man was so big that his cheeks were as wide as a pig. His eyes were lost between folds of skin, his head shaved round the back, with black hair gelled into spikes on top. Forearms the size of Kate’s thighs burst out of the sleeves of his football shirt.

‘Don’t,’ she whispered.

To her horror, Jago walked straight up to the man and slapped him on the back.

‘How’s it going, lads?’ Jago said, pointing at the screen. ‘What’s the score?’

Kate’s legs began to shake.

The man put down his pint and surveyed Jago belligerently with his tiny eyes. Jago met his stare face on. The man’s mates watched, beers suspended in mid-air in thick-fingered hands.

He opened his mouth.

‘Two–nil, mate – fucking beauty, that last one.’ He lifted up his arm as the crowd on the screen cheered the opposition’s run towards goal. ‘Mark him, you fucking wanker!’

Jago smiled, as he took Kate’s hand again and led her past towards the door. ‘Thanks, lads.’

‘See you, mate,’ the man called, raising his pint. His tiny eyes turned to Kate, who was now pale with fright. ‘Night, love.’

She walked outside, her heart hammering so hard in her chest that it was difficult to breathe properly. Her legs felt as if the muscles and bones had been removed inside and they were about to collapse.

She put out a hand to touch the wall.

Jago turned.

‘Kate! What the fuck? You’re shaking,’ he exclaimed.

She tried to speak and it came out as a stammer. ‘Why . . . did you . . . do that?’

He took her shoulders. ‘They’re just lads out for a drink. It’s the end of the season; they’re hyped up. But they’re harmless. Kate? What’s going on?’

To her horror, she couldn’t hold the tears back. They flooded into her eyes.

‘Oh, shit. Are you sick?’ Jago sounded concerned.

‘No.’

‘Then . . .?’

She wiped away the tears, ashamed.

‘Kate! Seriously. What did you think they were going to do?’

She shook her head, hating herself. He reached out and took her shoulders gently. Self-consciously, she pulled back, disconcerted at being so physically close to a man after all these years. She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I know they seem OK to you, but to me . . .’

‘What?’

He watched her carefully.

‘I can’t explain it, OK?’ she said. Her voice sounded strident and ugly. She threw up her arms, banging into his. ‘I’m a freak.’ She felt him flinch. Pulling out of his grip, she turned away. ‘That’s all I can tell you, Jago. I’m sorry I suggested a drink. It was a really bad idea.’

She started to put her helmet on but, in her rush, dropped it on the pavement with a crack.

‘Fuck!’ she cried, throwing her hands up in the air. She had to get out of here.

‘Kate!’ Jago repeated calmly. He leaned over before she could, and picked up her helmet, but didn’t give it back to her. ‘What do you mean, you’re a freak?’

She shook her head. This was dreadful. ‘Jago, I’m sorry. I just don’t want to talk about it. I’ve got to go.’

But he wouldn’t move out of her way. ‘Oh no. Not till you tell me.’

A pit of disappointment opened up inside her. Now he was starting to see what she was really like, he was going to cycle off in a second, and that would be it. In all the bloody years she’d lived in Oxford, he was the first person she’d felt any type of real connection with. Tiny, but real. And it had given her hope. For whatever reason, he was the first person she felt able to talk to since losing Hugo.

And she was going to make him disappear, thanks to her
fucking
anxiety.

Fighting back fresh tears, Kate knew she had ruined whatever chance she’d had of getting to know this man. ‘Look. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be like this. I just can’t be around other people right now. It’s complicated. It’s my fault. Not yours. I’d better go.’

She reached out to take her helmet from him, but Jago put it behind his back. ‘No. Not until you tell me.’

What was he doing? ‘You don’t want to know.’

‘Why don’t you let me decide that?’

She looked at him defiantly. He held her gaze. What the hell? She’d never see him again anyway.

‘OK. Well, if you really want to know . . . It’s hard for me to be around people like that . . . Because of my husband . . .’

Jago glanced quickly at her wedding ring. ‘Oh right. I’d assumed that you . . .’

‘No. My husband – he died.’

Jago brought down his hand with her helmet to his side. ‘Oh God. I’m sorry.’

‘No, it is not your fault. You wouldn’t have known. I just . . . I shouldn’t have come. I’m sorry. I just – when we spoke. It seemed to help.’

‘With what?’ Jago dipped his head to the side. It was such an understanding gesture, one she had seen Sylvia make in their session, that she felt a lump in her throat. She shook her head. ‘It’ll sound crazy.’ The second time she’d said that in the past week.

He touched her arm. ‘Come on. Trust me. I’m a doctor. Of mathematics, but it’s still worth a try.’

She gave a reluctant smile. The fading light was throwing their faces into shadow. Jago waited patiently for her to speak. What did she have to lose?

‘OK. It helped because I spend a lot of time doing this. A huge amount of time, actually. Worrying about what might happen to me and Jack. I have this constant obsession about the chances of bad things happening to us.’

‘What do you mean, “chances”?’

She rolled her eyes, anticipating his surprise – or, worse, amusement – at how crazy it was going to sound. ‘Chance, odds, statistics. You know, “You have a 15 per cent chance of having a bike accident if you cycle on a weekday compared to 10 per cent at the weekend”. That kind of thing.’

Jago looked shocked. ‘Is that why you wanted the book?’

She nodded and her voice dropped to a miserable whisper. ‘And if you want to know the truth, it’s ruining my life in so many ways I can’t begin to tell you.’

‘Are you serious?’

She regarded him, curious at the tone in his voice. He wasn’t laughing at her, or suddenly remembering he had to be somewhere else.

Jago turned and sat on the pub wall. ‘Bloody hell. You poor thing. Do you know, Kate, I was just talking to my publisher in the States about this last week. There’s a psychologist working on a book about exactly this.’

Why hadn’t Sylvia known that?

‘It’s an emerging phenomenon, apparently: people trying to gain a sense of control over their lives by using statistics to do with safety or health. Living with a constant fear of imagined danger. The closest my publisher could compare it to was a kind of obsessive compulsive disorder.’ He stuck out his lip like a naughty boy. ‘Kate, I’m sorry. Now I feel bad. Is that why you were asking me about how you put these things out of your head?’

She looked away, embarrassed.

‘That’s hard. Sorry.’

‘No, really. It’s really not your fault,’ she said more calmly, knowing it was time to end this embarrassing encounter before she humiliated herself any more. ‘But, listen, I think it’s better if I just go . . .’ She held her hand out for her helmet.

‘Go? No!’ Jago said. ‘No way. I feel a bit responsible now. Right. Just give me a second to think.’ He turned one way, then another.

‘Right. I know.’

‘What?’

’Get on your bike,’ he said, giving her the helmet.