One Moment, One Morning (11 page)

She takes a seat on the stool at the dressing table and reaches into the drawer for the hairdryer. As she does so, Simon comes over and slips his hands around her waist from behind.

‘And you, my lady, are very womanly.’

She arches her back, tilts her head up and kisses him. She is only wearing her underwear and at once she feels aroused: it is the combination of the surroundings, sense of freedom from her usual routine, moisturizing lotion tingling on her skin, and, above all, Simon himself. He smells so clean, so fresh, and at this moment he looks particularly physically attractive.

‘Mm,’ it is his turn to mutter as he picks up on her mood. He slips a hand into her knickers and down.

‘Ooh . . .’

His fingers find their destination fast, yet he is gentle with her: he knows her body well, how to gauge it.

She swivels to face him. ‘Don’t start anything you can’t finish,’ she teases. ‘Don’t you have to go?’

He glances at the clock by the bed. ‘I should,’ he grins. ‘But it’s only some boring seminar first thing. If I don’t turn up till afterwards, I dare say no one will notice.’

‘So how long have you got?’ She undoes the ties of his dressing gown. He has an erection. ‘Mm,’ she laughs again. ‘I’d say well over six inches.’

He chuckles; it is an obvious joke, but that is its humour. ‘I’d say, oh, forty minutes . . .’

‘Only forty minutes?’ Slowly, she traces the line of hair from his belly down with her fingertip then looks up at him.

‘Well, maybe an hour . . .’ He raises an eyebrow at her. ‘If that’s what my girl needs.’

‘She does,’ says Karen. ‘If she’s to take time to do everything properly . . . .’ She takes his cock in her hand and starts to move it in the way she knows he finds impossible to resist.

Minutes later, she straddles him on the dressing-table stool. They make love there, prolonging it, both feeling naughtier than they have in ages because they are somewhere different, decadent, delicious, and Simon should be at work.

Later that day, when Karen is still purring and happy, she discovers they sell the dressing gowns at the hotel as memorabilia. So she buys one from the hotel reception, and gives it to him once they are home, as a surprise. A few weeks later still, she discovers she is pregnant. Whether it was that morning, or the night before, she is never sure. But she works out from her cycle that at some point on that trip, Luke was conceived. Her baby boy, now five years old, lying asleep in her bed, all slight and small and sucking his thumb, in the spot where usually Simon himself would lie; her Simon, all big and broad and manly.

Anna’s alarm goes off; she wakes with a lurch. She had finally fallen asleep around 3 a.m.; now she is launched straight into the world by the radio, tuned permanently to Radio 4. Even though Steve would prefer music, it is a battle Anna has won, arguing that she is the one who has to be up and out first. Anyway, Anna has the final say, although she has never had to articulate it: this is her house – Steve contributes to the mortgage, with sporadic payments of rent or else in DIY, but she is the one whose name is on the deeds. Anna is specific – even truculent – about her tastes. She doesn’t like music first thing, she can’t be doing with DJs. She finds their determined perkiness too much; it often clashes with her mood. Moreover, she finds music – pop songs especially – too loose, too vague. They leave her hanging, emotionally unsettled, and she doesn’t like that, not first thing, at any rate. Under normal circumstances she finds there is something about the spoken voice and news – however grim – that places her in reality, somewhere specific in time. It gives her a sense of stability, grounds her.

Today, however, everything is different. Almost before she has even opened her eyes, Anna is conscious of the events of the day before: Simon, Karen. The presenter is interviewing a politician – one gravelly voiced Scot versus another – but she doesn’t take in a word; her head is jostling with sadness and worry and anger and feelings she cannot even define.

Before she gets sucked in, she focuses: today she is going to work. Karen has assured her she’ll be OK with Phyllis there; that she and Phyllis can support each other. Anna will go over that evening. So she must get up. Now.

Steve is still fast asleep, snoring slightly. It never ceases to amaze Anna how he can slumber in spite of the radio, but four years together have proved that he can, perhaps because when he works it’s physically exhausting. In some ways Anna resents it, as it serves to underline how brutally early she has to be up and out of the house. But in others she likes it because it allows her to get ready without any interruption.

In the night Steve has flung his arm around her, and it is resting on her shoulder. Gently she lifts it up, slides herself out from under the duvet and slips her feet into worn suede slippers. Then she pads over to the far side of the room and turns on the little fluorescent light above her dressing table. It is not that bright and Steve rolls over, mutters vaguely, and resumes snoring.

After showering, Anna dresses. Normally she likes to plan her outfit; assemble shoes, tights, separates and jewellery so they complement each other, before she goes to bed. She has done this since her university days, when she and Karen shared a house. Karen has always thought her incredibly organized, and, as Anna rummages for clean underwear, she hears her friend teasing: ‘You are such a control freak!’ Karen is one to pull on whatever is nearest, if it is an average day, or if she is going somewhere special, whatever takes her fancy that moment.

Anna sighs. Today, of all days, deciding what to wear won’t be top of Karen’s list.

Because she wasn’t up to laying anything out the previous night, now Anna behaves like Karen and reaches for what is easiest: yesterday’s skirt and top.

Next, she does her make-up. But as she opens her eyes wide to put on mascara, she is overwhelmed by an urge to cry. It takes her aback; until now she has been fine, or fine-ish, operating on automatic pilot. The tears spring forth before she can stop them, smudging her eyeliner and leaving pale trails through her blusher. She wants to howl like a baby, but gulps and blinks back the tears.

Blast, she’ll have to apply some of her make-up again; she’ll miss the seven forty-four if she carries on like this. She forces herself to concentrate, and, a few minutes later than usual, she is ready.

Outside the morning is cold but crisp. It is getting light, and as she heads down the steep hill to the station, legs juddering as the incline propels her forwards, her breath billows white, like steam from a train in an old movie.

*     *     *

Lou loves her sleep, and has her morning routine down to a fine art so she can maximize her time in bed. She lives a mile from the station, but her alarm goes off later than Anna’s. Her priorities are: get clean, dress, eat, drink, all as fast as possible.

Her studio doesn’t have a bath; there is not room, but a brisk power shower is a daily pleasure. She loves the way the water blows away the blurry feel of night: a sensation she compounds with a peppermint shampoo called ‘Invigorate’ which makes her scalp tingle. A quick blast with the dryer – she doesn’t even need to see what she is doing, so familiar is the routine – a touch of gel and her hair is ready; she clips on a cotton bra with equal dexterity, then it is clean knickers and T-shirt, jeans, zip-up top. Next, breakfast. A bowl of muesli and sliced banana, eaten standing at her little attic window, watching the rising sun transform the sky in the east. Barely has she swallowed the last mouthful and had a couple of slurps of tea before she is pulling on her parka, tucking one leg of her jeans into her sock, wiggling into her rucksack and bounding down the stairs.

She keeps her bicycle in the narrow communal hall – an agreement she has come to after much wrangling with her neighbours. She pushes on the light – it’s on a timer – to see, knowing it will go out just before she has turned the key in the lock; the landlord is tight about any expense, including electricity. No matter: after several years Lou knows the layout in the dark. All she needs to do now is open the front door, edge the bicycle down the steps (banging her shins as she goes – ouch) and with a swing of her left leg over the crossbar, she is off.

It is a much nicer day today, she thinks as she speeds along the promenade; chilly, but fresh – perhaps it will be sunny later. She is concentrating so hard, head down, focusing on the motion of the pedals, that – oops – she has to swerve sharply to stop herself from going into the back of a large vehicle. It is an ambulance, double-parked across the inside lane of the road by the Palace Pier, blocking her way. Its lights aren’t on, but there is a police car too. Something is happening.

She slows to look, and sees paramedics carrying a stretcher up the slope from the beach. At once she knows the reason for the lack of flashing lights – a cover is pulled over the body’s face; the emergency has passed.

Oh, dear, she thinks. Not again.

But she has not got time to stop, and anyway, that would seem prurient. So she sticks out her right arm at a mini-roundabout and turns up towards the ornate domes of the Pavilion and Theatre Royal.

The rhythm of pedalling acts like a sieve, sorting her thoughts.

I need to deal with Aaron, she thinks. That’s something I cannot leave to fester. I need to ring my mother, and – damn it – let Vic know I won’t be able to make her party.

Her mother. Hmm . . . The furthest Lou has been able to push rebellion is to hold off on calling the night before as requested, but she is going to agree to the visit itself.

She cuts along the back streets of the North Laine to the station, switching down a gear as she goes. It is uphill, but Lou is fit and used to it. Rows of white terraces flank her on either side; houses with doors that open straight on to the pavement. Here there are no front gardens, merely window boxes or clusters of pots by doorsteps. A century ago these dwellings used to belong to railway workers and fishermen. They have long since been taken over by boho families with small children called names like Apollo and Atlas, students with multiple piercings and dreadlocks, and artists of sometimes questionable talent struggling to pay the rent.

Lou gets off her bike and wheels it through the station to the cycle stands at the back. She locks it, removes her helmet and heads for platform 4.

How strange, she thinks, recalling the previous morning, that everything is totally back to normal; everyone is behaving as if nothing has happened. It makes her feel sad, that one person’s life has so little impact. And what about that body on the beach just now? Perhaps it was one of the people who sleep on the beach; Brighton has a lot of homeless people, and winter is hard for them. If so, chances are their death will impact on an even smaller circle – many people prefer not to think too deeply about them, let alone get involved.

Lou sighs and checks her watch. Oh, well. She makes for the front of the train so as to be near the exit at Victoria, scouring the windows as she walks for a glimpse of Anna.

She would like to see her again; she feels connected to her by shared experience. But either Anna is not here yet or she is not working today. Although Lou has given Anna her card, she has no way of initiating contact herself.

I do hope she is OK, she thinks, and her friend Karen, too.

*     *     *

Anna buys her breakfast at Marks & Spencer in the station forecourt as she always does, and heads for platform 4 and the seven forty-four. She has cut it much finer than usual, but manages to find a carriage where there is still space – it’s an advantage that Brighton is the start of the line. She takes off her coat and puts it on the shelf overhead and settles into a window seat, facing forwards, her usual choice. Briefly, she thinks of Lou, wonders whether to call her or send a text. But she’s not up to holding a conversation with anyone today, she decides, not unless she has to. Another time, maybe, when she is less raw.

A couple of minutes later there is a blast of a whistle and the train sets off. They stop at Preston Park, someone takes the seat next to her, and her journey is going just as it has done for months on end, until they pull out of Burgess Hill and she is overwhelmed.

This is where it happened. Twenty-four hours ago exactly. At this place, Simon had a heart attack.

Inexplicably, the tears burst forth before she can stop them. Miniature rivers and rivers, smudging her eye make-up all over again.

What is happening?

The people next to her and opposite, whom she doesn’t recognize from yesterday, were probably on the train, but have no idea she knew the man who died.

They will think she is mad, crying. It is ghastly, these unexpected bursts of emotion. They seem to come from nowhere. She reaches in her bag for a tissue.

She can see the man opposite eyeing her, so struggles to smile at him, stop herself from weeping. It doesn’t really work; all she does is grimace.

Then, through the tears, comes a fresh realization. She betrayed Karen in many ways, being on the same train, a few carriages apart.

What if I’d known Karen and Simon were on board? she thinks. What if we had bumped into each other at the station? Or if by chance we had been in the same carriage, and I’d seen them when I got on? If they were sitting down before I did, I must have walked straight past. If we had been together, I could have helped, altered the course of events, done
something
. But instead I was here, almost in this very spot, reading my magazine. Oblivious.