The Great Escape (26 page)

‘Uh?’

‘I mean, he remembers your song, don’t you, Felix? D’you want to talk to him?’

‘No!’ Spike barks. Speaking to a stranger is the last thing he wants to do right now.

‘Spike, my man!’

Spike winces at the loud, brash voice in his ear. ‘Er, hello,’ he says ambling away from Astrid’s house.

‘So, fancy this, huh? Amazing!’

‘Yeah, amazing.’

‘Been hearing all about you,’ Felix says. ‘I’ve often wondered, you know, what happens when someone has such a big hit, and then …’

‘Uh-huh,’ Spike mutters.

‘It must be strange for you …’

‘Yeah, kinda,’ Spike growls, turning into the street where Sound Shack is and deliberately looking away as he passes it.

‘Great song, though,’ Felix blathers on. ‘La-laaaaa …’ Oh no. He’s started to sing loudly over the background hubbub of the street. Worse still, someone else has joined in.

‘Okay!’ Spike snaps, but no one seems to hear – it sounds as if the whole damn town is joining in now. He finishes the call without saying goodbye, his jaw rigid with fury.

The door swings back with force as Spike storms, damp and dishevelled, into Bar Circa. It smells of cheap lager and wet jackets and at first, he can’t spot Charlie or any of the band members. The bar is packed with people yelling to be heard, and virtually all the girls are skimpily dressed in minuscule skirts and strappy little tops. Under normal circumstances, he might have paused to take in the view, but right now he’s far too agitated to appreciate shapely legs or death-valley cleavages. Now he’s started to warm up, Spike has become conscious of a faint odour coming from his moist leather jacket – fuggy and foodie, not unlike the whiff from Lou’s hair when she returns from Let’s Bounce. Spike pulls his jacket off and slings it casually over his shoulder. Now worrying that that looks awkwardly posed – a male model stance from his mother’s Grattan catalogue – Spike stuffs it under his arm like a small, damp pet and squeezes his way to the brass-railed bar.

‘Hey, glad you made it.’ Charlie has landed beside him and slaps him on the back with unnecessary force.

‘Yeah, just thought I’d drop by,’ Spike mutters.

‘Good party?’

‘Huh?’

‘That party. Take it you didn’t stay long?’

‘Er, no, wasn’t really in the mood,’ he explains with a shrug.

‘Right. Anyway, come over and meet everyone …’ As he follows Charlie towards the cluster of band members, Spike decides he isn’t in the mood for this either. He feels hot, tired and vaguely nauseous from the cheap perfume fug, mixing in with whiffs of brandy that are wafting up into his throat.

‘Jamie on drums, Justin on bass, Simon on guitar, Rod on vocals, not forgetting Harry the roadie …’ Charlie is making a big show of introducing each person as if they’re on stage. Spike nods, trying to appear fully engaged, yet only half-listening. At least Charlie hasn’t mentioned ‘My Beauty’, so he might possibly be spared further humiliation tonight. Not that any of these guys are old enough to remember his sole hit.
They’re probably still studying for their A-Levels
, Spike thinks dryly as a bottle of Stella appears miraculously before him. ‘So where are you playing next?’ he asks the singer.

‘Glasgow,’ Rod explains. ‘We should probably crash soon, get a few hours’ kip at the hotel. We’re meant to be on the road by ten tomorrow.’

Spike checks his watch. It’s only midnight; what a bunch of lightweights, he thinks darkly. ‘When he says hotel,’ adds Harry-the-roadie, ‘he’s using the term loosely.’

‘Right,’ Spike chortles. ‘So where are you staying?’

‘Some hovel about ten minutes away,’ Rod explains. ‘Stinks of fried breakfast, wet dog, wet dog
turd
actually …’

Everyone laughs, and Spike has to stop himself from telling them that he used to tour too. ‘That’s funny,’ he offers. ‘My girlfriend’s in Glasgow right now.’

‘Yeah?’ Harry says. ‘What’s she doing up there?’

‘She’s on a hen weekend with her friends.’

‘Right, so it’s going to be a quiet, low-key kind of thing,’ Rod chuckles.

Spike grimaces. ‘Well, it’s not meant to be a big, wild weekend …’

Charlie and the band are all smirking knowingly, and Spike feels irritation bubbling up once again. ‘But that’s not what it sounded like when I spoke to her earlier,’ he adds, unable to stop himself. ‘There was some guy there, some posh creep who’d tried to pick her up on the train, plied her with drink, and he was tagging along for the night, sounded like they were all out of their skulls, to be honest …’ A rich burp pops up, reeking of sausage. Charlie is frowning at him as if he has something strange and horrifying growing out of his nose.

‘Well, it’s a hen party,’ Harry offers with a shrug. ‘What else are they going to do? Sit around having tea and cakes?’

‘Yeah, but it’s not meant to be a wild weekend, remember,’ Rod adds with a guffaw.

‘You don’t think …’ Charlie frowns, meeting Spike’s gaze. ‘Lou wouldn’t get up to anything, would she? Not your Lou. She’s such a great girl.’

‘Of course she wouldn’t,’ Spike exclaims. ‘I just …’ He shrugs, wishing he had some chewing gum to take away the bad taste in his mouth.

‘So what are you worried about?’ Charlie wants to know.

‘Nothing.’ Spike shakes his head firmly and swigs from his bottle.

‘He’s just jealous,’ Rod guffaws. ‘Jealous of his girlfriend letting her hair down while he’s stuck with us sorry lot.’

Spike forces out a dry laugh and tries to relax.

‘Well, mate,’ Harry-the-roadie says with a smirk, ‘you could come up to Glasgow with us, check out what she’s up to. We’ve got room in the van.’

‘I might just be tempted,’ Spike chuckles.

‘Yeah, Lou would love that,’ adds Charlie. ‘You showing up out of the blue, ruining her fun.’

As they banter on, Spike tunes out. He no longer wants to be standing here, pretending he’s having a great Friday night out. What he really wants to do is to beam himself into that Glasgow bar and punch Felix in the face.

He says his goodbyes then, deciding that he needs to go home, sober up and wrestle his tangled thoughts into order. ‘Well, it’s been great meeting you all,’ he says stiffly, placing his empty bottle on a cluttered table, ‘but I think I’m going to crash.’

After a small flurry of backslaps and you-take-care-mates, Spike starts to head for the exit. ‘Like we said, Spike,’ Harry calls after him, ‘we’ve got room in the ambulance if you change your mind …’

‘Ambulance?’ Spike echoes. Although he feels vaguely unwell, he can’t imagine that a hospital visit is necessary.

‘Our tour bus,’ Rod explains with a grin. ‘Hardly luxury but it gets us about.’

‘We’re leaving around ten,’ Harry adds.

‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Spike calls back.

‘Hey, Spike!’ Charlie yells. ‘If you do go, I suggest you wear two socks instead of just the one, yeah? It can get pretty chilly up in Glasgow.’

THIRTY-EIGHT

Sadie has drunk two more bespoke cocktails and feels just fine – better than fine, in fact. The last time she socialised was at a Little Hissingham coffee morning. She’s now perched on a stool with her best friends, surrounded by beautiful people –
everyone
looks beautiful to Sadie tonight. She wants to call Barney, to tell him she loves him and the babies so much, and to say sorry for going on about schedules like some tedious headmistress at a strict boarding school.

And now, perhaps fuelled by Felix’s caramel cocktail, she’s no longer an addled mother but dancing with her friends, feeling slightly off kilter at first because she hasn’t danced in a very long time. It’s like sex, she thinks: you stop doing those lovely things you used to take for granted, then you try it once and it’s okay, it’s
better
than okay, and you realise what you’ve been missing. Sadie’s thoughts are racing, any trace of self-consciousness gone. She’s dancing, unaware of the breast pad which has worked its way up to the neckline of her dress and is about to make a bid for freedom.

When the tall, dark-haired man in glasses asks her to dance, she smiles and turns towards him, recognising him from the last bar. It’s so
friendly
here. It’s where she belongs. When the breast pad pops out of her dress, she just laughs, kicks it aside and keeps dancing …

Sadie Vella is so happy she could cry. Anything she does right now is just fine, because she loves Hannah and Lou and Barney and the boys, and right at this moment, life is pretty damn perfect.

THIRTY-NINE

Ryan’s taxi pulls up outside Petra’s ground floor flat. The living room curtains are drawn at the bay window, with soft light behind, and even from the street her place has an aura of stillness and calm. Ryan pays the driver, clears his throat and absent-mindedly smoothes down his hair as if about to embark on a blind date. Then he knocks quietly on Petra’s front door and waits.

‘Hi,’ she says with a smile, stepping back to welcome him in.

‘Hi.’ He smiles awkwardly. ‘I hope you don’t mind …’

‘Of course I don’t. Come in, I’ll get you a drink. What would you like? Beer? Glass of wine?’

Ryan shakes his head as he follows her to the kitchen. ‘I’d just like a coffee if that’s okay.’

Petra smiles, her raised eyebrows registering surprise as she scoops coffee into the cafetière. ‘Are you okay, Ryan? Is something going on?’

‘Um … sort of.’ He perches on the edge of her kitchen table, watching as she takes a mug from the cupboard. Petra looks different tonight; her hair is softer, more natural, her pale, earnest face free of make-up. Instead of her customary crisp white shirt – Ryan always wonders how she manages not to cut her neck on those collars – she’s wearing a black long-sleeved top and stretchy black trouser things which Ryan assumes are for yoga. It’s the sleepy, night-time Petra whom he hasn’t seen for a very long time.

She turns and hands him the mug of coffee. ‘Shall we go through?’

‘Yes, okay.’ He follows her into the living room and they sit a little awkwardly on her low oatmeal-coloured sofa.

‘So?’ She fixes her clear grey eyes on him.

‘Well, I er …’ he starts.

‘Dad?’ comes Daisy’s voice from the bedroom she shares with Josh. ‘Daddy, is that you?’

‘Yes, Daddy’s here,’ Petra calls out softly, ‘but it’s after midnight, darling. Go back to sleep …’

There’s a thump of feet and the squeak of a door, followed by the sound of Daisy padding towards them.

‘Dad!’ she exclaims, appearing in the living room doorway. ‘Why are you here at night?’

‘Er, I’ve just come to see Mum.’ He smiles broadly, kissing the top of his daughter’s head as she wraps her arms around him.

‘Have you brought my story?’

‘No, no. … but I’ll find it. I promise. Or you can help me look for it when you’re home on Sunday.’

She pulls back, her smile wilting. ‘Why did you come then?’

‘Daisy.’ Petra stands up and places a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. ‘Sometimes me and Daddy just need to talk.’

‘What about?’ She frowns and bites her lip.

‘Just …’ Her mother shrugs. ‘Just things, sweetheart. Things we don’t really get the chance to talk about at any other time.’

‘Were you talking about
me
?’

‘We weren’t talking about anything yet,’ Ryan says with a chuckle. ‘I’ve literally been here about five minutes.’

Daisy throws him, then her mother, a quizzical look. ‘Can I have a hot chocolate?’

‘No,’ Petra says with a laugh. ‘Bed, Daisy. Come on now, we’ve got a lot to fit in tomorrow.’ Reluctantly, Daisy turns and heads for her room.

Petra looks expectantly at Ryan. He sips his coffee, which is lukewarm now, and swallows hard. He doesn’t want to tell her; the Marlboro packet no longer seems like the massive deal it had a few hours ago. Hadn’t he sneaked a few ciggies behind the sports block when he was Josh’s age? ‘Petra,’ he murmurs, ‘Josh has been smoking.’

She is perfectly still, clear-eyed, lips poised. ‘Has he? Are you sure?’

Ryan nods. ‘Yeah.’

‘How d’you know? Have you smelt it or something?’

‘No, I just stumbled on an email of Hannah’s where she was telling a friend …’

Petra frowns. ‘She was telling a friend, but hadn’t told you?’

Ryan exhales. This was what he’s been thinking too, turning it over and over in his mind. It’s what bothers him most about the whole thing. ‘Maybe she felt she shouldn’t interfere,’ he suggests, ‘or she didn’t want to get Josh into trouble.’

‘But she caught him smoking! And didn’t even say …’

‘She didn’t catch him exactly,’ Ryan says quickly. ‘She found a packet with one in it in his jeans pocket.’

‘But would her loyalties be with Josh rather than you? I wouldn’t have thought so …’

Ryan tenses at the word ‘loyalties’. What about his loyalty to Hannah who’ll be his wife in just two weeks’ time? He shouldn’t be here at Petra’s at twelve-thirty at night. Yet who else can he talk to about Josh? ‘I don’t know what’s going on with Hannah,’ he says carefully. ‘It’s as if there’s this whole other thing going on that I know nothing about.’

‘What kind of thing, Ryan?’ Petra’s eyes are filled with concern.

He shakes his head. ‘I’m not sure. I just …’

‘I thought you must be worried about something,’ she adds gently, placing a delicate hand on his knee, ‘if you’ve been looking through her emails.’

‘I didn’t mean to pry,’ Ryan insists. ‘I was only looking for Daisy’s …’ He stops himself.

‘Ryan …’ Petra’s hand is still there, small and warm on his knee. ‘No one just stumbles on other people’s mails. We read them because we’re looking for something, and we only do that when we think something’s wrong.’

Ryan blinks at her. Calm, wise, beautiful Petra with her sharp cheekbones and almond-shaped grey eyes. ‘You’re right,’ he murmurs. ‘You’re absolutely right.’

‘So …’ Her voice is soft, her house so calm and still he can feel his heart thudding. ‘Is there something …?’

He looks at her, his ex-wife who decided she no longer loved him three years ago, and realises, with a crushing certainty, that it’s happening to him again. ‘Petra,’ he says, ‘we’ve planned this wedding and it’s all going ahead, but I know, when we say those vows, it’s going to be all wrong …’