The Great Escape (12 page)

If she were Hannah, she’d be out on her bike, every inch of her body taut and fit, with a flush of rude health springing up on her cheeks. However, Sadie’s bike now resides in the tiny shed in their back garden, having suffered seemingly irreversible gear damage when one of Barney’s mates crushed it under a flat-pack wardrobe when they moved. She could go for a run, if she was lithe and tiny like Lou – but it would probably kill her, and she doesn’t relish the idea of Milo and Dylan being motherless. Plus, Sadie doesn’t own any trainers. Swim, she thinks. That’s more like it: rhythmic, soothing, with no bodily parts thrashing about. And she’ll be able to report back to Barney, ‘I went swimming’ and feel proud and purposeful. Sadie quickly throws her kit together and heads out.

The pool is just over a mile away in the small town of Corlingwood, an unremarkable cluster of new-built homes in virtually identical cul-de-sacs. In the sports centre – a faceless slab of pale grey brick – Sadie changes into her Proper Mother swimsuit (black, sporty, serious bosom support), ties back her chestnut hair and plunges into the deep end.

This is good, she thinks, launching into a breaststroke. She’ll do twenty – no, thirty, maybe
fifty
lengths and soon slip easily back into her dark-wash jeans. The pool is pleasingly quiet; there’s only an elderly man ploughing steady lengths, and a woman in a flowery swimsuit, her hair trapped beneath a pale blue bathing cap, who dives into the deep end in an elegant curve.

A man strides out of the changing room. Tall, slim, closely-cropped dark hair – something about him reminds Sadie of Johnny, her old friend from Garnet Street who just disappeared when that icy girlfriend of his (Sadie can’t remember her name) got pregnant. She’d had a slight crush on him in her second year, then worried that she fancied him just because he was so easy to talk to, someone you could wake up at 2 am for a chat, knowing he’d be pleased to see you. She began to suspect he fancied Lou, or maybe Hannah – surely he found
one
of them attractive – then the years rolled on and what she’d regarded as matey-flirtatiousness with all three of them turned out, disappointingly, to be just plain mateyness.

The man has swum to the shallow end. He stops, propping his elbows on the pool’s edge, and smiles at her. Sadie smiles back, alarmed by how unfamiliar it feels these days to be noticed by a man. She realises then that he’s not looking at her, but at the woman who’s just come out of the changing room, and quickly rearranges her face. ‘Hi, Sadie,’ the woman says with a big grin, clambering into the pool.

‘Hi.’ Sadie smiles hazily. The man has lunged off in a splashy crawl, and the woman glides through the water towards her. Hell, Sadie has met her before, and has precisely five seconds to remember not just where and when, but her name, the name of her husband and however many children and pets she might have. Her brain whirs ineffectually.

‘Did you try it then?’ The woman is beside her now, briskly rubbing her upper arms to try and warm herself.

‘Er, I, um don’t think …’

‘You should! You really should. It’s one of those things that’s so simple but really works.’

Sadie gazes at her. ‘Mmm. I will.’

The woman laughs as the man swims past them. ‘Frozen bananas! As lollies, remember? My tip when we were chatting at Monica’s?’

‘Oh, God yes,’ Sadie booms, relief surging through her.

‘Polly, are you swimming or what?’ the man calls out jovially from the other end of the pool. Polly! At least Sadie now knows her name. She feels her shoulders relax and her brain start to function normally once again.

‘So, not with your twins today?’ Polly remarks as they start to swim steadily together.

‘No. Barney’s taken them to see his parents. I’ve got time off for good behaviour.’

‘Us too. Left the kids with my sister. It’s our regular thing.’

‘What, this? Swimming?’ Sadie asks, surprised. With no discernible logic, she’d assumed that having the dedication to make bogus lollies also meant you’d have at least one of your children tethered to your bosom at all times.

‘Oh yes, every week. It’s our regular date.’

Sadie takes this in. She’s always assumed dates should involve alcohol and possibly food, maybe a movie, but each to their own. ‘Not next weekend though,’ Polly adds, ‘because I’ll be in New York for work.’

‘New York?’ Sadie blasts out.

Polly chuckles. ‘Well, it’s not that often. Just every couple of months. I work for a magazine publishing company and I’m kind of straddling two continents at the moment.’

‘Oh,’ Sadie murmurs. ‘I mean … that’s great. Wow. Do you, erm …’ She doesn’t know how to put this without sounding disapproving, which she isn’t; she’s just awestruck. ‘I … I guess your partner’s fine keeping things going at home,’ she adds.

‘Yes, of course he is. We manage it together, me and Phil’ – she casts the man who reminds Sadie of Johnny a fond glance – ‘and we have a brilliant nanny. It’s good, I think, for children to form bonds with other adults. Makes them independent and sociable and—’

‘Oh, I agree,’ Sadie says quickly. ‘I mean, I’m at home with the babies just now, but only because I couldn’t figure out how I’d manage to keep on top of my job with the two of them. I was an art teacher in north London. I’m going back at some point. Just not sure when …’ They reach the end of the pool, turn and set off again.

‘I couldn’t be at home full-time,’ Polly says. ‘I take my hat off to you.’

Sadie laughs. ‘Well, to be honest I’d love to go away, just for a couple of days. One of my best friends has invited me on a hen weekend in Glasgow. It’s where we studied at art school …’

‘That sounds fun. You’re going, I assume?’

‘Er … well, I’m not sure. I know this sounds weedy but I’ve never left Milo and Dylan before.’

‘But they’d be with Barney, wouldn’t they? I’ve seen him around the village. Looks calm, capable …’ Polly chuckles indulgently.

‘Oh, yes, I know they’d be fine, it’s not that …’

‘So why not go?’

‘I …’ Sadie hesitates. ‘It just feels …
alien
.’

‘Well, you’re going to go away at some point, aren’t you? So why not start now? I mean, it’s your friend’s hen weekend!’

‘I know,’ Sadie says. ‘It’s just so soon …’

‘And you can’t
not
go to that. It’s a special occasion. It’s not as if you’re waltzing off just for the hell of it.’

‘Well, I’ll see,’ Sadie says cautiously. She doesn’t count lengths for the next hour because she’s imagining herself with Hannah and Lou, away from bibs and being woken up at all hours and marching around Hissingham Park.

And by the time she climbs out, she’s decided to go. She isn’t planning to straddle two continents, for God’s sake. It’s only
Glasgow
. Saying goodbye to Polly, Sadie strides towards the changing room, focusing on placing one foot after another on the wet tiled floor to stop herself from leaping excitedly into the air.

‘Are you absolutely sure?’ Sadie asks Barney that night. They’re in bed, having settled the babies, and she’s resting her head on his chest.

‘Of course I’m sure, honey. You don’t need permission, you know.’

‘But it would mean you taking Friday off work.’

‘It’s not a problem, okay? I’ve racked up loads of extra hours lately.’

Sadie blinks in the dark. ‘But what about feeding? I know we’ve been using the odd bottle, but I’m not sure I want to give up …’

‘Maybe you could express some milk?’ Barney suggests.

‘Yeah.’ She smiles, impressed that he’s even heard of the term. ‘Yes, I could do that.’ She stretches up to kiss him, wondering if there’s any connection between her impending escape and the return of her libido, which burst back onto the scene tonight with such gusto that Barney seemed, initially at least, a little taken aback. Not for long, though. It had happened – and Sadie’s body had responded the way it used to. So everything still works. She’s still capable of enjoying herself with the man she loves. Which means, she thinks, kissing him lightly on the lips, she’s still Sadie Vella underneath.

SIXTEEN

It’s a broody-skied Monday and Spike is absolutely knackered. He’s had quite a morning, having already been round to Astrid’s, ostensibly for a late breakfast – ‘brunch’ she’d called it, laughing so he’d know she was being ironic. He’d enjoyed watching her, every fibre of his being fizzling with anticipation as she made perfect poached eggs on some strange kind of toast with nuts and dried berries nesting inside (Spike isn’t a fan of mysterious shrivelled fruits lurking inside his toast, but pronounced it delicious). He also enjoyed a brief but particularly raunchy encounter with Astrid on her bathroom floor, and after that, legged it back to the flat to pick up the first acoustic guitar he’d ever owned. Now he’s heading to Sound Shack, the tiny music shop sandwiched between a bookmaker’s and a launderette in a beleaguered side street.

‘Hey, Spike,’ Rick drawls from behind the counter. ‘Haven’t seen you around. Been hibernating?’

‘Just had a lot on my plate,’ Spike fibs, aware of being eyed by Rick’s straggly grey dog of no discernible pedigree who’s lounging in a hair-strewn wicker basket. The dog opens its mouth wide in a yawn, exposing black gums, then flops its head back down on its cushion.

‘Yeah? What kind of stuff?’ Rick wants to know.

‘Just this and that.’

‘Any gigs coming up?’

‘Got a few irons in the fire,’ Spike says blithely.

‘So … anything you’re looking for?’ Rick asks.

‘Er, maybe. There might be something …’

‘Yeah?’ Rick says hopefully.

Spike pauses, overcome by a wave of regret as he looks down at the guitar case he’s clutching. His parents had bought it when he was fourteen, despite the fact that they knew less than nothing about music. A couple of albums of terrible church music had been the sum total of their record collection, yet they’d saved up the princely sum of £180 because it had meant so much to their son. ‘Er … I’m thinking of selling his. Thought you might be interested.’ Something catches in Spike’s throat, and he busies himself with removing the guitar from its case.

‘Right,’ Rick says with interest, scratching his small salt-and-pepper beard. ‘Let’s have a look.’ Spike hands him the guitar, and Rick takes what feels like far too long to check it out. Visual inspection complete, he sits on a small wooden chair in the corner of the shop and starts to strum.

Spike sucks in his lips and pretends to admire the instruments on the walls of the shop. It seems wrong, Rick playing
his
guitar; he became twitchy even when Lou asked him to show her some chords.

‘Yeah,’ Rick murmurs. ‘S’nice, Spike. A good, rounded tone. I could probably give you a hundred and fifty.’

‘You’re joking?’ Spike spins round from the bass he’s been studying. ‘Is that all?’

Rick shrugs, carefully places the guitar back in its case and retrieves his still-smoking cigarette from the ashtray by the till. ‘Tough times, mate. Recession, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

‘Yeah, I know.’ Spike’s stomach feels leaden.

‘I’m telling you, reselling it isn’t going to be easy. I don’t want to be stuck with it, taking up space …’

Spike blows out air and digests the figure. He’s being ripped off, and could probably get twice the amount if he sold it privately through a small ad. But Hannah’s hen weekend is in two weeks’ time, which means Lou has to decide whether or not to go pretty much right away. He
needs
Lou out of the picture, and giving her money is the only way he can think of to make it happen. ‘Two hundred?’ he suggests.

Rick puckers his bottom lip and grinds out the roll-up. ‘One-sixty. That’s my final. Sorry, mate. It’s all I can do.’ Great. A hundred and sixty quid for a quality guitar that cost more than that
thirty-four-bloody-years-ago
.

‘Right. Okay.’ Spike tries not to show any emotion as Rick counts out the tatty notes, and slips them into his jeans pocket as if the small, precious wad is no more significant than a shopping list. In reality, though, it’s the passport to an entire, uninterrupted weekend with Astrid. Which means, he reflects, as he leaves the dusty shop, that it’s worth it.

Is it morally wrong to sell something like that, he wonders? Of course not. Things are just
things
Spike tells himself; it’s life’s experiences that matter, and Spike considers himself a free man, unencumbered by material possessions. So he hasn’t sold out – he’s made a
considered investment
. And forty-eight hours in bed with Astrid is well worth £160.

Even so, his heart falters as he climbs the stairs to the flat. Suddenly, Spike fears that what he’s doing is actually
very
wrong, and will result in some kind of terrible karmic retribution. He freezes on the landing, blood draining from his face as he desperately tries to remember if, in his haste to get his hands on some cash, he forgot to lock the door.

No, surely he didn’t. He never does that. Yet the door is a few inches open, and somebody is definitely pacing around inside his flat.

Spike doesn’t feel brave or strong enough to charge in and grapple with whoever is in there. ‘Right, so you really don’t mind,’ comes the voice.
Lou’s
voice, on the phone. He nearly weeps with relief. Lou, who’s pacing around with the phone, smiles as he walks into the living room. ‘I feel like I’m letting you down,’ she goes on, ‘but at least we’ll see you at the wedding …’

It’s Hannah
, Spike realises as Lou chatters on about wedding dresses (‘I’m sure it’s lovely, you’re just nervous, that’s all … no, of
course
you’re not going to look like a nurse, daft thing, whatever put that idea in your head?’). Hannah, the blonde beauty with a fit, toned body, whom Spike has always suspected doesn’t entirely approve of him. Still gripping the phone, Lou sneezes several times into a tissue. She resumes the chat, punctuating it with the loud, open laughter that seems to burst out of her mouth only when she’s talking to one of her friends. She finishes the call. ‘That was Hannah,’ she says unnecessarily.

‘Right.’