Over You (40 page)

‘Good for you,’ Nell said warmly.

‘I know,’ Josie giggled. ‘I think it will be.’ She paused, wondering whether or not to tell Nell about her new reconciliation with Pete. Oh, what the hell. She couldn’t keep it to herself any longer. ‘The other thing is that Pete and I have been getting on really well.’

Nell’s tone turned suspicious. ‘Oh yeah?’

‘Yeah – he came to see the boys off with me on Monday, and . . .’

‘And?’

‘Well, he came back here for coffee, and . . .’

‘You didn’t.’

‘Didn’t want?’

‘You didn’t . . . do anything stupid, did you?’ Nell sounded horrified rather than pleased at the idea of anything happening.

Josie felt nettled by her friend’s response. ‘Well . . . What do you mean?’ she asked.

‘I mean, you didn’t . . .’ Nell hesitated. ‘Sorry. Being judgemental. Presumptuous. Just tell me.’

‘Well, it was really nice, that’s all,’ Josie said. ‘Nothing
happened,
not in the way you’re thinking, we just . . . talked. In a friendly kind of way. About the boys and stuff.’

‘Right.’ There was a pause. ‘So . . . you’re not about to tell me you’re getting back with him or anything?’

‘No, but . . .’ Josie felt confused. She hadn’t been expecting Nell to react like this. She’d been
pleased
that Pete had been so nice the other day. Hopeful, too, even if she hardly dared admit it to herself. So why was Nell being so negative all of a sudden?

Nell changed the subject and launched into a story about some drama concerning getting her visa for Panama, but Josie felt rattled for a while after she’d put down the phone.

She poured herself a glass of wine and sat down at the table with her notes from that day’s seminar.

Design flaws in HTML itself (no separation between content, structure and presentation of data) and the Netscape/Microsoft strategy (‘extending HTML to include features which only worked with their browser) combined to create. . .

But all she could think about was having sat here just a few days ago with Pete. How good it had felt. How nice it had been to reminisce about the babies with him.

‘Get a grip, Josie,’ she told herself, staring at her own scribbled words until the letters jumbled before her eyes. ‘Get a grip!’

A few weeks of consolidation passed while everyone got used to their different routines. The boys made a new friend each at school and stopped looking quite so tired. Josie was loving her course, and had already had a raucous night out with a bunch of the other students. And she and Pete . . .

Well. Things had moved from civil to positively matey, actually. He’d come round one evening, ostensibly so that they could sort out their joint finances, but somehow or other they’d managed to drink a whole bottle of wine between them, and had ended up laughing fit to bust on the sofa about old times.

For a moment – a single moment – she caught him looking at her and wondered, with a twisting thrill inside, whether he was on the verge of saying something serious. Something important.

She’d made an excuse to go to the kitchen – ‘Fancy some olives?’ she’d blurted out – and jumped to her feet so quickly that she’d kicked over her wine glass. So that had been that. Moment over.

She was terrified of him making a move again. Terrified, but at the same time longing for it.

‘I just
miss
him,’ she confessed to Annette over the phone. ‘Even after everything he’s done, I still fancy him and I still miss him. And if he tried it on, I just don’t know what I’d do.’

‘Oh, Jose,’ Annette replied. ‘He won’t change, you know. If you got back with him, chances are he’d only cop off with someone else six months down the line.’

Josie sighed. ‘I know that. That’s why I’m keeping him at arm’s length,’ she said. ‘But he’s still my husband, and the boys’ father, so . . .’

‘And he’s still a cheat,’ Annette reminded her. ‘Sorry, Josie, but I’ve got to say it! And what about the guy in Zambia, anyway? I thought you were hoping—’

‘Oh, I haven’t heard from him for ages,’ Josie replied, interrupting quickly. She didn’t want Annette to say any more about what she may or may not have been hoping. She’d told Annette about Rob during a one-glass-too-many night down the pub a few weeks ago, and now regretted opening her big mouth. ‘That was probably all pie in the sky, anyway. Me imagining stuff that wasn’t there. I think I went a bit mad over the summer. He probably just felt sorry for me, did his Good Samaritan thing, etc. Anyway, he’s so lovely, some gorgeous Zambian woman has probably snapped him up by now.’

‘Hmmm,’ Annette said. ‘When’s he back, this guy? What’s his name again? Rob, was it?’

‘Yeah, Rob,’ Josie said. She sighed again. Her and her stupid crushes. Her and her silly pipe-dreams. ‘I think he’s back at Christmas time.’

‘Well, I’d forget Pete and hang out for riding off into the sunset with Rob, if I were you,’ Annette said. ‘He sounded great.’

‘Yeah, but he’s probably not interested,’ Josie argued. ‘Whereas Pete . . .’

‘Whereas Pete let you down big-time,’ Annette finished. ‘Remember?’

Of course she remembered. How would she ever be able to forget? Yes, he’d let her down. Yes, he’d lied and cheated and stabbed her in the back, but . . .

She groaned. Stop it, Josie.
Stop it!

Of course nothing was going to happen with Pete. It was definitely all over. They’d had the money-chat now, sorted everything out fairly, so if he
did
have any intentions towards her he’d hardly have gone through all the paperwork for nothing, would he? And he was talking about buying a flat, for God’s sake! People didn’t start spending thousands of pounds on surveys and property when they were hoping to move back into the family home, did they?

She was feeling good about heading towards financial independence for the first time in years, anyway. Pete had agreed to pay for the mortgage and a share of the bills until Easter, after which time she was hoping to manage the bulk of the payments herself Her course ended at Christmas, and she’d already got some design work lined up for the New Year thanks to Lisa throwing a few contacts her way.

So really, everything was flowing smoothly. She actually felt as if she was starting to come through the whole mess of separation with her sanity intact, just like Annette had predicted.

Then it happened. She was lying on her bed one evening, reading a book, when she first heard it. A scratching sort of a noise. She sat up, putting the book face-down, and strained her ears to listen. It was windy outside, and for a moment she wondered if it was just a branch from the tree at the front of the house scraping against the window.

There it went again. No. It wasn’t the window. Wrong sort of sound.

Feeling edgy, she got off the bed and went to look outside. It was dark now, punctuated only by the yellow pools of light from the streetlamps. The trees were groaning in the wind. The cars seemed to be hunkering down on the road, their aerials lashed by the gale. A bad sort of a night to be out, she thought with a shiver.

And there it came a third time, the scratching noise. It sounded as if it was right outside the house. She froze as she heard it – and then her eyes widened as she realized that it was the sound of a key in the door.
Her
door.

Her heart bumped in alarm. Someone was trying to get in! Someone was on the other side of her front door, trying to pick her lock, just a few centimetres of wood and glass away from being in her house. Oh fuck. Shit! This was what she’d been dreading.

She padded out of the bedroom, along the landing to the top of the stairs. The boys, got to protect the boys. A burglar could take everything else – whatever they wanted – as long as the boys were all right. But you heard such awful stories, didn’t you, about deranged crackheads completely out of control, hurting people for kicks, even little kids like her two . . .

Oh God. This was the worst thing about being a single parent. The fearful locking up every evening, each time knowing that this could be the night when someone tried their luck, gave the door a kicking or smashed a window, forced their way in past the locks and bolts, sneaked through her house . . . It could happen, she knew damn well it could. It was a nice enough area, their estate, there weren’t dead-eyed feral kids roaming the streets, stuffing petrol bombs through letterboxes or stomping over car bonnets, but that didn’t mean her safety was guaranteed. Laura’s car had been pinched by joyriders a few weeks ago. Emma’s shed had been broken into over the summer. Why wouldn’t someone want to have a go at Josie’s house? Especially if they’d been watching it; they’d know she was on her own in there, just her and the children.

Oh
shit. SHIT.

Her mind raced for a weapon she could use, something she could defend herself with, if need be. A hammer? Rolling-pin? Meat cleaver? Sod it, she’d do it, if anyone tried anything with the boys. She wouldn’t hesitate, she’d have a go at anyone to protect her sons. But if she could just get to the phone first, call the police, maybe she could avoid any of that . . .

She started down the stairs. The letterbox was rattling, and she pressed herself against the wall, into the inky shadows, trying not to gasp as she saw a pair of eyes peering through. And then a
voice.

‘J
ose!
Josie! Let us in, will you? It’s me.’

She almost fell down the rest of the stairs. ‘Pete!’ she cried, feeling awash with relief at his
voice.
She strode across to the door and pulled it open, unable to stop herself berating him. ‘What the hell are you doing? I thought you were trying to break in. I was all set to call the police! I—’

He held up a hand to head her off, and she could hear how shrill her
voice
was, how scared and accusatory.

‘I was just passing,’ he said. ‘And I wondered . . . can I come in?’

There was something about the way he was enunciating his words so carefully and deliberately that roused Josie’s suspicions. She narrowed her eyes, leaned forward so as to get a better look at him. ‘Are you drunk?’ she asked, not moving an inch.

‘No!’ he exclaimed, sounding wounded. His breath stank. ‘Just been celebrating a bit, that’s all. Celebrating my freedom.’

‘Your what? Freedom? What do you mean?’ She leaned against the doorframe, her arms folded.

He spread his palms upward, a fluid, definitely drunken movement. ‘It’s over,’ he said dramatically. ‘Sabine, I mean. It’s all over. And I’ve seen the light.’

‘What, you’ve found God?’ Josie asked sarcastically. Her heart was quickening all over again, though, at the thought that Pete and Sabine had split. Why? she couldn’t help wondering. What was wrong in Paradise all of a sudden?

He laughed. ‘No, not God,’ he said. His expression was earnest under the glow of the hall light. He put a hand on his chest – was she really meant to take that seriously? – and took a deep breath. ‘I got it wrong, Jose. I made a mistake. And . . .’

She stared at him. ‘And you’ve come round here, pissed, to tell me that? Well, thanks. Thanks a lot, Pete. But you’re going to have to do a bit better than that, I’m afraid.’ Of all the cheek! ‘Trying to let yourself in, too! God! You frightened the life out of me.’

He shrugged. ‘Sorry,’ he said. He flashed her an aw-shucks smile. It felt nice though, the thought of letting myself in here. Just like I used to before . . . Well, you know.’ The smile looked strained suddenly, and his arms fell limp by his sides. ‘Go on, let us in, Jose,’ he said. ‘It’s freezing out here.’

The wind battered the side of the house, as if proving a point. Josie thought quickly, trying to decide what was best to do. A quick chat and maybe a drink wouldn’t hurt, would it? And she was curious to hear what had happened with Sabine anyway – just so that she could gloat in private once he’d gone. She hesitated. The thing was, she was tired, and he was half-cut, and it would surely be better to have this conversation in the civilization of daylight rather than in the darkness of evening. Wouldn’t inviting him in now muddle all the boundaries that had been set?

Pete was still smiling at her. ‘Go on, Jose,’ he said. ‘For old times’ sake, eh?’

And, infuriatingly, she felt herself smile back, and roll her eyes at him. ‘What are you like?’ she said. ‘Come on, then. Come in.’

‘Cheers,’ he said, stepping into the hall. He stood there while she shut the door, waiting for her to lead him in. ‘Where are we going, then? Kitchen? Living room?’

‘Come in the kitchen while I get us a drink,’ she suggested, walking briskly past him. She felt tingly, strange, having him in the house again after dark. She was conscious of her body moving, with him walking behind her there, and went a bit faster, trying to shake the thought from her mind. It was disturbing. She didn’t want to dwell on it. She pushed open the kitchen door and snapped on the lights.

‘So, what do you want?’ she asked, turning to face him.

He was blinking and sallow-faced under the unmerciful spotlights. ‘Well, as I said, I feel like I’ve made a mistake, and—’

Now it was her turn to cut him off with a hand. ‘No, to
drink
,’ she said.

He had the grace to laugh at his mistake. ‘Oh, right, I thought you meant—’