One Moment, One Morning (9 page)

‘Hello, Miss,’ says Aaron, squinting as she approaches.

‘Hello, Aaron. Hello, Kyra. How are you both doing?’

‘I’m all right, Miss,’ says Aaron. ‘How are you?’

‘Tired, actually,’ says Lou as she draws up alongside. It is true: the shock of that morning has been compounded by the demands of her job and having to perform as a counsellor so immediately after the incident. Now the adrenaline rush has passed, what she really wants to do is sleep.

‘Up all night, then, Miss?’ asks Aaron.

Lou frowns. She can see where this is headed.

‘No,’ she says categorically. ‘Yesterday was Sunday.’

‘Doesn’t stop some people,’ says Aaron.

‘Were you with a woman?’ asks Kyra. Her tone is a blend of disgust and curiosity.

Lou could just walk on at this point, but intuitively feels they will read that as avoidance and it will provoke them further. She looks them, first one and then the other, in the eyes. Aaron’s are deep brown, challenging. Kyra’s are pale blue, narrowed aggressively. Aaron is scuffing the ground with his trainer; Kyra is twiddling her long hair; both displacing surplus energy.

‘I watched
Coronation Street
,’ Lou states. ‘Then a costume drama on ITV. Then I went to bed.’

‘There’s a gay man in
Coronation Street
,’ says Kyra.

Jesus, these two are quick.

‘Indeed there is,’ Lou nods. She notes to herself that this seems worth exploring in their individual counselling sessions; both seem preoccupied with homosexuality.

Kyra continues, ‘Are you gay, Miss?’

It is at moments like these that Lou wishes she had chosen a less gruelling arena to work as a counsellor; one where it would be unlikely she would come across clients outside their sessions. Compared to where Lou last worked, counselling in a school makes the boundaries more blurred.

‘Aaron says you are.’ Today of all days, Lou hasn’t the energy. There’s no let-up, however: ‘Apparently you good as said so.’

‘Guys, guys. If you want to discuss this further, I would appreciate it if we could do it at the appropriate time.’

‘What’s wrong with now?’

Lou takes a deep breath. This is getting close to bullying. ‘I think you know, Kyra. Whilst I respect your interest in my personal life, you know the rules: if I want to keep something private, then that’s up to me. If there’s anything else you wish to discuss then please bring it to our session – this is a public place. Let’s chat when you see me tomorrow, OK?’

‘But how come you asks us to share stuff with you, and then you won’t share this with us?’

‘Because our roles are different.’

‘Sounds like bullshit, Miss,’ challenges Aaron.

She can’t help but admire his savvy. Lou talks a lot to the students about being straight and honest in their sessions, and she appreciates his perspective. ‘I am sorry you feel that way,’ she concedes, ‘but you need to respect my feelings too, and right now I am exhausted, so I’m going home.’ She walks away.

‘But we still think you’re a lesbian, Miss,’ Kyra calls after her.

Anna steps through her front door that evening and there is no post on the doormat, no waft of stale air, no silence. Steve has scooped up her letters and put them on the hall table, the house is warm but not stuffy, there is the smell of cooking and the sound of the radio filters towards her.

‘Hello,’ calls a voice from the back of the house. ‘You must be bushed.’

Anna feels a whoosh of gratitude – what a contrast to Karen’s homecoming. She goes into the kitchen and Steve is standing at the cooker, wearing her apron. Whilst it is not actually frilly – that is hardly Anna’s style – it is pastel green and gingham, so clearly a woman’s garment, and there is something endearing about seeing it on such a macho male. Perversely, it makes him appear more handsome. And Steve, without doubt, is handsome. Tall, broad-shouldered, with dishevelled straw-coloured hair, he is the kind of man that women turn and stare at in the street – and some men, too, come to that, given that this is Brighton. Anna is fully aware much of Steve’s success as a painter and decorator stems from the fact he is eye candy – she fell for it herself, after all, when she moved to the house and needed work doing. She has noticed his looks don’t seem to threaten straight men either – probably because he is also good at the male bonding thing; he loves pubs and outdoor sports and cars.

‘I’m making spag Bol,’ he says, putting down a wooden spoon.

Anna’s heart lifts further. She had feared his reaction to the day’s events would be to knock back several drinks before she got home; it wouldn’t be the first time he had reacted to other people’s emotional dramas that way. But she can tell that he is sober. Really, truly, she could not have coped with him being anything other than supportive today, and she is grateful.

‘Ooh, yum.’ She can smell tomato, minced beef, onion, mushroom and garlic. It is
just
what she feels like eating: homely, comforting, full of carbs, and one of Steve’s best dishes. He is an accomplished cook; Steve is good at most things that involve using his hands. (‘So he must be good in bed, then,’ Karen had joked when he and Anna met.)

‘Come here.’ He turns down the radio and opens his arms. Anna steps into the space and leans against his chest, inhaling his scent, feeling the heat of his body, his strength, his solidity. There is nothing she needs more than this, and she breathes out, long and hard, trying to exorcise some of what she has been through.

‘Must have been quite a day.’ He kisses the top of her head. ‘So, what can I get you?’

Anna would dearly love a large glass of red wine at this moment, but she says, ‘A cup of tea,’ though she’s had plenty already.

‘You sure?’

She nods. ‘If I start drinking I won’t stop.’ This isn’t true and she knows it, but if she has one he will too, and she can limit herself to just one or two drinks far more easily than he can.

‘OK. One tea coming up. Now, you sit down, here.’

Relieved, Anna takes a seat at the kitchen table, and without her having to ask, Steve massages her shoulders. Instinctively he knows where she is holding tension and gently eases away the strain. She rotates her head, relaxing. ‘That’s nice.’ He finds a knot of muscle in the nape of her neck, intensifies the pressure with his thumbs. ‘Mm, just there . . . Thank you . . .’

She leans back and kisses the nearest bit of him: her lips brush the front of his shirt and she can feel the muscles of his chest through the cotton. She is almost getting turned on, but not quite: she is still too raw from all that has happened.

‘So, tell me,’ he says.

She sighs, again. ‘God, it’s absolutely awful.’ And, as if the movement of his hands is channelling it from her, out it pours, in one long rush: the train, the taxi, Karen’s call, the hospital, Simon’s body, the children.

When she has finished, Steve asks, ‘Was there anyone with Karen when you left?’

‘Yes, Simon’s mum came over pretty much at once, and his brother, Alan, was coming straight from work. He left early so he’ll be there by now. Do you remember him?’

Steve nods. ‘Sure – nice guy. Oh, well, that’s something, I guess.’

‘They were going to have to choose some clothes for Simon to be laid to rest in, the three of them. That’ll be fun.’ Anna winces. ‘Still, at least Phyllis is going to stay over, by the sound of it.’

‘Good idea. I don’t think Karen should be on her own tonight.’ He stops massaging, and returns to the stove to the stir the Bolognese. It’s on a low heat; Anna can hear it softly bubbling. Then he comes to the table, and with a scrape of wood on ceramic, pulls back a chair and sits down. It is his turn to exhale. ‘Poor bloody Karen.’ He rubs his eyes, runs his hands through his hair. ‘Jesus. I guess there’s no way she can afford the new house now.’

Anna nods: he’s voicing something she and Karen haven’t broached yet – money.

Steve continues, ‘Did Simon have any life assurance?’

‘I expect he did. He was kind of good like that, Simon.’

‘Not like me, you mean,’ Steve laughs, but there is a touch of bitterness in his voice. He feels his lack of wealth keenly.

‘No, not like you,’ Anna agrees, but her tone is forgiving, affectionate. At this juncture she is so glad to have Steve there by her side, pulsing with life and energy, that she has no urge to jibe whatsoever.

Awareness of Steve’s physicality thrusts her back to the hospital with a jerk. The sight of Simon is one she will never forget. She’s not seen a dead body before and she doesn’t know what she expected, but it wasn’t that. In life, Simon was bigger even than Steve – a real tank of a man – yet that afternoon he seemed so much smaller, so grey, so still.

She leans in, closer to Steve, and takes his palm in hers. She is struck by the contrast again; here she is holding her partner’s hand, just as Karen held Simon’s earlier. And here is Steve’s hand, filled with warm blood and pumping veins and firm bones and working tendons, with its chipped fingernails and hardened skin from years of manual labour. She grips it, she grips tight. For that brief moment it feels as if it is all that is keeping her from being swept away.

*     *     *     

‘Again, Mummy, again!’

Karen closes the picture book and puts it down. ‘Twice is enough, Molly.’

‘And Mummy is pretty tired today,’ says Simon’s mum, Phyllis.

This is an understatement; Karen is near catatonic with exhaustion, but sleep will not cure it.

Alan has come and gone, taking Simon’s clothes for the undertaker with him. She could hardly see straight to choose something for her husband to wear, but she did her best, and with Phyllis and Alan to help, they’ve selected a dark grey work suit, clean white shirt and Simon’s favourite silk tie.

Now she and Phyllis are putting Molly and Luke to bed. Together they’ve managed to feed them – fish fingers and baked beans were simplest – and bath them, get them into their pyjamas and upstairs, without too much protest, to their room. Karen is thankful for her mother-in-law’s assistance and presence; left alone, she fears she might just have sat in the living room clutching the children, the three of them weeping all night. But for the last hour or so the adults have distracted Molly and Luke with normality. Nonetheless, Karen is aware that Phyllis is in severe shock too. To lose a child is awful under any circumstance; to lose one so late in one’s own life, and so unexpectedly, is a blow from which she may never recover.

Luke interrupts her thoughts. ‘Where’s Blue Crocodile?’ Blue Crocodile is his favourite toy, worn, gaping in places and with stuffing coming out at the seams. Incongruously for a crocodile, he is very furry, though the fur is matted now from years of attention. Luke has been less interested in him of late, but he still asks for him when he’s in need of comfort.

‘He’s here,’ says Karen, locating the toy at the foot of the bed. Luke grabs and squeezes him tight. ‘Shall I tuck you in?’

Luke shakes his head, obstinate. ‘I want Daddy to tuck me in when he gets home.’

Phyllis and Karen glance at each other. Has he not understood? Karen thought he had. But maybe it’s too much for him, beyond his comprehension. And under usual circumstances, of course, this would be exactly what would happen: when Simon got home from work he would bound up the stairs, two at a time, just in time to say goodnight.

‘No, my little one, do you remember, I told you? Daddy’s not coming back tonight, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh. Is he coming tomorrow?’

‘No, I’m so sorry.’ Karen doesn’t want him to start crying again – it’ll set her off too. She changes tack. For the moment all she can offer is herself, so she says, ‘But I tell you what, why don’t I just sit with you here, till you go to sleep? We can turn the light out, but I’ll just be here, on the chair, until you both drift off.’

‘Yes,’ Luke agrees.

‘I’ll go downstairs, I think,’ says Phyllis, getting to her feet.

‘I’ll be with you in a bit.’

‘There’s no hurry.’ Phyllis turns off the switch. ‘Shall I leave the door open a little?’

‘Wider,’ says Molly. They both like to see there is nothing to be frightened of.

Karen can hear Phyllis softly padding down the carpeted stairs. She reaches over to stroke Molly’s golden curls away from her face and then adjusts herself in the wooden chair. It’s not very comfortable, but she’s not bothered. What she needs now is to be with her children as they fall asleep. Then, as they slumber, she finds she can’t tear herself away. She sits for hours in the semi-darkness, just to hear them breathing, still alive.

*     *     *     

It is nearly midnight. The lights are off, the curtains drawn, the alarm set. Anna lies snug under the duvet, conscious of Steve’s body wrapped in a large curl around hers. She usually loves this; it gives her a feeling of freedom, facing out, combined with the security of being held. Steve drifts off at once, but tonight her mind is still churning.

For the first time she has the space to think of her own relationship with Simon, how much she will miss him. After all these years, she has grown to love him, platonically, but deeply. He has been a root in Anna’s life, someone she can rely upon. He’s shored up Karen; Karen’s shored up Anna. There is more, too; she will miss his humour, his kindness, his intelligence, his generosity. Even when she was at their house and she and Karen were chatting, just the two of them, over coffee in the kitchen, there was something about knowing he was there in the background, watching telly, playing with the children, doing DIY; just being. Even if he was out at work, Anna was conscious of his presence. He gave every moment she shared with her friend something indefinable, something extra. Not just security, but a sense of reality, groundedness, sheer
humanity.
She respected Simon; he had principles, morals. He was a landscape architect, often dealt with councils, or worked on large housing projects. There were people he refused to do business with if he felt their politics or aesthetics were at odds with his own. Simon was a moral measure by which she judged her own life, in many ways.