The Great Escape (30 page)

With that, the woman turns to go. Hannah stands in the now deserted street, then heads up the small hill and round to the left, to the very last door in the terrace. Outside Johnny’s flat, she casts a quick look up at the cloudless blue sky. Her finger hovers over the buzzer which reads FLAT 2B J LYNCH, and her heart quickens as she presses it.

FORTY-FIVE

The morning is going well. While Pete has dozed off on the sofa bed, shrouded in a spare duvet and seemingly unperturbed by the activity going on around him, Barney has put on a wash, wiped down the kitchen and swept the floor, all the while keeping an eye on his babies who’ve been mercifully content on their play mat with its various stuffed cotton animals.

He is multi-tasking. That’s something men aren’t supposed to be able to do. Well, Barney can,
and
he’s been up since 5.47 am, having fed and dressed his sons and changed their nappies twice (remembering to use their nappy rash cream and scented sacks which, to his mind, smell far worse than anything that spurts out of a baby’s bottom). He’s starting to flag a little now – on a normal day, a weekday that is, he’d have merely sat on the train to King’s Cross, caught the tube to Holborn and installed himself at his gloriously uncluttered desk. At this point – it’s just gone 10 am – he’d be peeling the plastic lid from his morning Americano and taking that first delicious sip. Barney hasn’t had time for coffee yet – he’s barely had time to pee – and nor has he had the chance to reflect on his and Pete’s forthcoming meeting with Magda and Amy in one terrifying hour’s time.

Barney cringes as this unwelcome thought darts through his brain. It just feels
wrong
somehow. Pete hasn’t helped either. He could have dropped Sadie’s name countless times, but for some reason seems to have chosen not to. With a small shudder, Barney picks up Dylan and settles into the armchair. He holds him close to his chest, breathing in his sweet, delicious scent in the hope that his baby’s innocence will somehow cancel out the uneasiness brewing inside him. He glances over at Pete, who has opened his eyes on the sofa bed, and is stretching his entire body so his long, hairy feet poke out from the bottom of the duvet. ‘Morning,’ he says with a grin.

‘Morning. Plenty of beauty sleep?’

‘Yeah,’ he chuckles, ‘just about.’ In fact, Pete looks irritatingly perky considering he’s spent a night on the least comfy sofa bed Barney has ever owned in his life.

‘Look, Pete …’ Barney starts, holding up Dylan who’s gazing at their house guest with interest. ‘I don’t think I’ll come and meet the girls if it’s okay with you. I’m kind of busy with these two. You go, hang out for as long as you want, pick up some photography tips, and I’ll make you something to eat later if you’re not …’ he wiggles an eyebrow ‘… caught up in other things.’

Pete props himself up on an elbow and frowns. ‘But they want to see the babies.’

‘What?’ Barney looks at him incredulously.

‘I mean …’ At least Pete has the decency to blush. ‘You saw what a fuss they made of them at the pub. They’re obviously the kind of girls who love kids.’

‘They don’t care about my babies, Pete!’

‘No, they really do.’

Barney shakes his head disbelievingly. ‘You’re saying you want to use my children as girl-pulling accessories, is that it?’

‘No, I don’t mean that.’

‘I could hire them out,’ Barney teases, ‘for a reasonable fee.’

‘Oh, fuck off …’

Barney turns away, placing Dylan back on the play mat and picks up Milo’s bib from yesterday off the living room floor. Hell – it says Monday on the front, and yesterday was Friday. Parenting police will be called and he’ll have serious questions to answer. ‘Listen,’ he adds, sounding less prickly now, ‘I don’t really care whether they like babies or not. The point is, I’m married. You might’ve forgotten that …’

‘Of course I haven’t! God, I love Sadie, she’s the best girl in the world. But this … this is nothing. We’re only meeting up in the
daytime
. It’s just a bit of harmless—’

‘So nothing ever happens in the day, does it?’ Barney asks with a straight face.

‘Well, I suppose it
can
, in the right circumstances, but it’s not like that, is it? You’re reading far too much into it.’

‘Oh yeah,’ Barney snorts. ‘It’s just a photography lesson. I forgot.’

Tutting loudly, Pete tosses the duvet aside and sits up in his white T-shirt and grey boxers. ‘I did notice that you never mentioned Sadie’s name, or being married, at any point yesterday, you poor single dad, you …’

Barney blows out air loudly, causing Milo to stare up at him and Dylan to giggle in delight. ‘I don’t know what you’re on about.’ He shrugs and turns away. ‘It just didn’t come up.’

‘Of course it didn’t,’ Pete snorts.

‘Well, it just didn’t,’ Barney says, heading through to the kitchen for milk. ‘And anyway, I do wear a wedding ring …’

‘I don’t think Magda noticed,’ Pete calls out after him, ‘or maybe she likes married men …’

‘Oh, shut up,’ he says as Pete follows him, throws open the fridge, extracts a bottle of apple juice and slugs from it. ‘I just feel a bit uncomfortable about it. I mean, the two of them are so
young
…’

‘God, you’re making them sound about fifteen,’ Pete exclaims.

‘Okay,’ Barney says hotly, placing a bottle in the bottle warmer. ‘I’ll keep you company but
please
don’t come on strong. I’ve got to live here, remember, and Madga works in the café in the park …’

‘I’ll behave,’ Pete says.

‘You’d better.’

‘Don’t look so scared. I’m sure they don’t bite …’

Barney shakes his head despairingly. ‘I’ve nothing to be scared of, Pete. I mean … we’re just going to meet up for a bit of a chat, right?’

‘Yep,’ Pete says, his eyes glinting with anticipation. ‘Nothing more dastardly than that.’

FORTY-SIX

Well, of course Johnny’s not in. It’s Saturday morning, and he’s a dad – he’ll be out taking his son to football or something. By the time she’s returned to Sauchiehall Street, Hannah has reassured herself that Ryan probably
did
sleep on Petra’s sofa. To further raise her spirits, she reminds herself that there wouldn’t be any room for a six-foot male in Petra’s bed anyway – not with that cello tucked up beside her. Even so, the thought of going home – back to Ryan’s – fills her with dread. Why the hell hadn’t she deleted that email? Perhaps, she reflects, a small part of her had wanted him to find it.

The stunning red dress catches Hannah’s eye again as she strides past the bridal shop, and she quickly turns away. She’s been so engrossed in her own thoughts that she’s forgotten all about nipping into Costa to buy coffees, and she’s also failed to notice the tall, long-legged figure heading towards her on the opposite side of the pedestrianised street. He’s carrying two carrier bags laden with shopping, and although his dark brown hair needs a comb, he’s still handsome, still the kind of man women notice. But Hannah doesn’t see him glance over in her direction and do a quick double take.

What Johnny Lynch sees at twenty past ten on a blue-skied morning is a beautiful woman in faded jeans, her fair hair pulled back in a ponytail, her face fresh and pretty without a scrap of make-up. He watches her striding determinedly, this old friend whom he’d dropped, like the others, simply because he’d been told to. No, not
just
because Rona had demanded it, but because he knew it was right, and that he had to stop seeing them – Lou especially. Because he’d kissed Lou that morning after the last party – and if Spike hadn’t been sleeping a few feet away he’d have kissed her a whole lot more. And was that any way to behave when his girlfriend was scared and pregnant?

Johnny opens his mouth, ready to call out Hannah’s name, but something stops him. If he runs over to her now, he’ll have to feign surprise that it’s not just Hannah who’s here in Glasgow, but all three of them, and he doubts if he could carry that off. Hannah has passed him now, growing smaller down the street. He watches her, wondering why he’s rooted here with his carrier bags, letting her go. He feels a pang so sharp it’s almost a physical pain.

He starts walking then, quickening his pace, not noticing the shoppers or buskers or
Big Issue
sellers because his gaze is fixed upon the blonde woman with the ponytail ahead. And he
can’t
let her go. He can’t just let the chance pass him by the way he did last night. He no longer cares what he’ll say or what she’ll think. He sees her stop and glance towards the posh patisserie on her right. He knows the shop well, because Cal always nags him to go in. Sometimes Johnny lets him choose something, though not every time, because the place is so pricey that he can knock together an entire roast dinner for the price of one of those strawberry tarts.

Hannah pushes open the gleaming brass door with the French flag bunting flapping above it and goes in. Johnny approaches the shop and sees her waiting in the small queue.
Just go in, be normal and buy something. Buy a tart for Cal, it’ll be a surprise for him when he comes back from his mum’s this afternoon.
Johnny clears his throat as he opens the door, wishing he’d shaved this morning and fitted in that haircut last week, wishing he’d at least
combed
his hair this morning and that he wasn’t carrying two bulging carrier bags and wearing a baggy old sweater that he really should have parted company with some years ago.

He steps into the shop, breathing in the sweet pastry smells. With all his dithering, two people have joined the line after Hannah. ‘Three lattes to go please,’ she says. The two elderly women between them are chatting away, saying the weather’s fine now but there’s still a bite in the air, and Hannah’s coffees are handed to her in a cardboard holder.

She takes them, and Johnny starts to feel trapped between the old ladies and a large middle-aged man who’s come in behind him, breathing loudly and nasally on the back of his neck.

In the periphery of his vision, Johnny sees Hannah glancing towards him, perhaps with a flicker of recognition – but no, she hasn’t realised who he is. Why would she notice a scruffy guy in a ratty old sweater with an unraveling elbow? Women are different: they take good care of themselves, they look bright and fresh even first thing in the morning. Not that Johnny can really remember what a woman looks like first thing in the morning.

Clutching her coffees, Hannah is pointing at something, although Johnny can’t make out what it is. Resting her tray of coffees on the glass-topped counter, she fishes her purse from her bag and hands over some money. The shop lady places a large, flat white box beside her coffees. Johnny scrutinises his shoes, heart racing now, hoping she’ll stride right past him. He feels hot and hemmed in and is overcome with self-consciousness. Three lattes mean all three of them are definitely here, and how can he possibly face Lou? And now …

Hannah is standing before him with a huge smile on her face, blue eyes bright, cheeks flushed pink, and both hands full with the coffees and that big flat white box. ‘I thought it was you,’ she says.

Johnny is aware of the enormous smile spreading across his face as he puts down his shopping. ‘I thought it was you too, Han. God, I can’t believe it.’

The elderly ladies look irritated, and Hannah says, ‘We’d better go out. I think we’re clogging up the shop.’

‘Here, let me take that box,’ Johnny says quickly. The heavy-breathing man opens the door for them, and they step out, both of them laughing at the absurdity of running into each other like that. Outside the shop, they stand and look at each other.

‘Johnny Lynch,’ Hannah says, ‘after all this time. And, God, you’ve forgotten to buy your … what were you getting in there anyway?’

‘Oh, I er …’ He pauses, momentarily trying and failing to name one thing he might want to buy in a patisserie, and remembering Cal’s incessant nagging as he stood outside the cocktail bar last night.
Why don’t you just go in and say hello?
‘I wasn’t buying anything,’ he says with a laugh. ‘To be honest, I just came in to say hi.’

FORTY-SEVEN

Ryan sits in the kitchen watching Petra tipping chickpeas, chopped garlic, olive oil and something brown and gloopy from a jar into the blender. She turns it on, the room filling with its frantic whir, then she spoons the contents into some kind of gnarled, recycled cardboard tub. Petra is making hummus for a picnic. ‘Won’t that go soggy?’ Ryan asks.

‘No,’ she says with a small frown. ‘These are great – we can throw them away when we’re done instead of carrying nasty plastic tubs around.’

‘Oh,’ Ryan says, wondering if he’s included in the ‘we’. No reason why he should be, just because he spent last night on Petra’s sofa. They still haven’t properly addressed the issue of Josh smoking, having veered into the even more worrying territory of the state of his relationship with Hannah. He’s aware that spending the whole of Saturday together would feel weird for both of them, yet the thought of heading back to a stark, empty house is hardly tempting either.

‘I’m glad you’re coming,’ she remarks, topping up his mug from the coffee pot. ‘The kids’ll enjoy you being there.’

‘Are you sure that’s okay?’ he asks.

‘Of course, unless you’ve other things to do …’

‘No, no,’ he says quickly. ‘I don’t have any other plans for today.’

‘Well, thanks,’ she teases him. ‘I’m glad we’re filling up your otherwise desolate, empty Saturday.’

‘I didn’t mean that. I just mean … It’ll be nice, that’s all.’
What’s happened to Petra’s Saturday plans
, he wonders?
The pop art exhibition and all the other educational trips?

‘You can help if you like.’ She flashes him a broad, almost flirtatious smile. Ryan blinks at her.

‘Sure. What d’you want me to do?’

‘Fancy making some sandwiches? There’s bread in the bread bin and ham in the fridge.’

With a nod, he assembles the ingredients and sets to work, noting that Petra’s ham isn’t the normal supermarket type that he buys, but posh stuff, hand-sliced from some deli and wrapped in waxy paper with a green gingham design. Her butter isn’t Kerrygold but French,
extra-fin
, with a peasant riding a donkey on the wrapper. ‘I thought you wanted to take the kids to the Portrait Gallery today,’ he says casually as Petra starts to pack the provisions into a hamper on the table.