The Mistake I Made (22 page)

‘Oh,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Oh.’

Then he said, ‘I’ll bring him back around ten? Does that give you enough time?’

‘I’m sure that’ll be more than enough time. Bring him back at nine if you want. It’ll give me an excuse to get rid of my date if he gets boring.’

‘As you wish … though, Roz?’

‘What is it, Vincent?’

‘I think this guy might be all right.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Just a feeling I get.’

He arrived early. I had the lounge window thrown wide and the back door open to create a wind tunnel effect through the house. I didn’t plan on inviting him inside, on account of the dreary interior and the generally sparse, unloved feel of the place. As Petra mentioned on the phone, I had not yet got around to acquiring new carpets, so we were still managing with the black asphalt flooring. The place looked pitiful and I was embarrassed.

Also, after a full day of sun, the lounge had the tendency to surrender the ingrained odours of tenants past. The room would fill with the pungent smells of scorched coffee, hints of tobacco and worn socks which I could never find the source of.

I was applying a second coat of candy-pink varnish to my toenails when I heard Celia’s voice through the open window.

‘So
you’re
the gentleman from work that Roz has been keeping a secret from us!’

My stomach folded in on itself.

Though it was not possible to make out his exact words, I was able to discern from his tone that my date replied with something polite and self-effacing. I just hoped he decided not to quiz me on this mystery man ‘from work’ later.

As it was, I instantly forgot all about this, because when I opened the door, ‘
You?
’ was out of my mouth before I had the chance to stop it.

He gave an apologetic smile, saying, ‘Surprise,’ rather flatly.

My face flooded with heat.

It was Henry Peachey. The insurance agent who had pricked my thumb to obtain blood.

Christ, he was attractive. He was attractive and he was Nadine’s brother.

Shit.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

This was not something I had anticipated. I had planned to bow out of this one date gracefully, never to meet again.

I was aware of Celia’s perplexed expression as she caught sight of my panicked face. I could almost hear her thinking that it was
no wonder
I was still single if this was how I greeted potential suitors.

‘Why didn’t you say it was you?’ I said in a forced whisper.

‘Because I wasn’t sure you’d accept the date,’ he whispered back.

‘I would have,’ I replied. ‘Anyway, stay there,’ I told him, trying to gather myself. ‘I’ll get my bag. Where are we going?’

And he made a wide, sweeping gesture with his hand. ‘Anywhere you like,’ he said. ‘I thought we’d follow our noses.’

He wore faded jeans and a grey marl T-shirt. He was a little taller than me by a couple of inches and had a neat backside. There was a nice thickness to the musculature of his upper back that was so appealing. And he walked like a boxer. Sure-footed, solid.

What was I doing? I couldn’t go. I shouldn’t go.

I had to go. I couldn’t stop myself.

We headed towards the gate, past Celia, who, in the time it had taken for me to grab my bag and shoes, had managed to apply fresh lipstick and fashion a ridiculously large, wide-brimmed hat on her head. It was held in place with a piece of chiffon tied beneath her chin, and I shot her a bemused look as I passed.

The car was a red Peugeot. It was meticulously clean, around fifteen years old, the kind of sensible vehicle bestowed upon a teenaged boy and in which he would learn to drive.

‘Enjoy yourselves!’ Celia cried, clapping her hands together happily. She was beaming.

‘We will,’ replied Henry, opening the passenger door for me.

‘Bye, Celia,’ I said.

She waved us off and I exhaled, relieved she hadn’t pressed Henry for any further details but feeling hugely unsettled and twitchy that I’d been duped by his concealing his identity. I cast my mind back to our first meeting, trying to remember if I’d somehow spoken of Scott Elias. Scott Elias, his brother-in-law.

Had I slept with Scott at that point?

No. That came later. At the hotel, where Henry winked at me. Bloody hell.
Could
he have glimpsed Scott there that night? He must have been moments away from seeing him. Was this some kind of trap?

What a mess. I couldn’t think straight. I could feel my composure starting to crack.

We hadn’t gone very far, maybe just a few hundred yards, when Henry indicated before pulling over. He lifted the handbrake and turned in his seat to face me. Dread swamped me as I regarded him. He had the look of someone who was about to offload, and I was terrified of what he was going to say.

He thrust out his hand. ‘Henry Peachey,’ he said, smiling. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you.’

‘Roz Toovey,’ I replied shakily, taking his hand, ‘but I think we may have already met.’

‘I’m so sorry about that. I should have told you on the phone that I knew who you were. I can see I’ve alarmed you. You look as though you’ve seen a ghost. Can we start again?’

I tried to smile. ‘Okay,’ I said weakly.

There was an awkward silence, during which each of us struggled to find something to fill the void, and then a thought occurred and I started to laugh.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘My address.’

‘What about your address?’

‘You already knew it. I told you I would text you my address when we spoke on the phone, but you already knew where I lived. I gave it to you when you came to the clinic.’

He winced. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘It was on your records.’

‘You know everything about me.’

‘Not that much,’ he said. ‘Anyway, does it bother you?’

I shrugged. ‘At least you know I’ve not got AIDS.’

He shifted in his seat, his face suddenly serious again. ‘I’m not really allowed to discuss the results of the blood test. It’s confidential. It will be sent out to you in the post.’

I just looked at him.

‘Oh, come on,’ I said. ‘You wouldn’t be here if that test was positive.’

I didn’t tell him I’d been tested the minute I found out Winston was screwing around. Along with another test six months later, just to be sure.

I told him I could really do with a drink, and he brightened at that. ‘Pub?’ he suggested eagerly. ‘Or the cheapskate option?’

‘Explain cheapskate.’

‘We call at the Co-op, pick up a selection of beers, and drink them at a beauty spot of your choosing. Crisps optional.’

‘Let’s do that,’ I said.

25

TARN HOWS WAS
as good a place as any. It’s a mile or so from Hawkshead and a nice spot to sit and watch the sun go down. People flock here because, basically, you’ve got all the scenery you’re ever going to need packed into one small area.

There is the tarn itself – perfectly placed, pretty cobalt under a blue sky; inky black when beneath cloud. The woodland, with its lone pines at the water’s edge, giving the place a romantic feel. And then there’s the view to the Langdale Pikes, the fells all the more majestic from this aspect and elevation.

The downside to Tarn Hows is the sheer quantity of people who visit, particularly of late, as the path around the water has been improved to such a degree that you could get around on roller skates if you set your mind to it.

At this time, getting close to seven forty-five, there were only a few stragglers left and a group of Japanese tourists. We stayed in the car as the group exited the minibus, not wanting to get caught up in the general confusion as umbrellas (to be used as parasols) were opened, cameras strung around necks, selfie sticks extended, wedge-heeled trainers adjusted.

We grabbed our beers and sunglasses and headed off. Instead of going towards the path, though, we turned back on ourselves, climbing the small hill which lies due south of the road. The view is immeasurably better, and hardly anyone is anarchic enough to go against the National Trust signposts – so you can more or less bank on having it to yourselves.

Henry also had lived in the area since birth, he said. So, having visited Tarn Hows throughout our youth, we were without the look of loved-up wonder displayed on the faces of many of the folk stumbling upon this beauty spot for the first time, couples whose expressions were so full of hope for the years ahead, as though this one experience would be the benchmark of their entire relationship.
This is how it’s going to be
, you would see manifested in the girls’ springy gait, the affected cadence of their words, and I’d think, cruelly:
Every day, sweetheart. Every day
.

‘Here all right?’ Henry asked, gesturing as he reached the summit, the bottles clinking against each other in the bag he carried with him.

There was a patch of grass the size of a double mattress, flattened from an earlier picnic. I told Henry it was fine, and we settled ourselves, Henry taking the opener from his pocket. He offered me a bottle of Miller, giving me another gentle, chiding look of disappointment at my choice. ‘All of this,’ he’d joked earlier, motioning to the array on offer in the Co-op, ‘and you go for bland American beer?’

‘Bland American beer
that I happen to like
,’ I’d replied.

‘What?’ I said to him now as he removed the cap from his bottle, ‘You’d prefer one of those women who drink pints of Guinness, or Caffrey’s, while watching rugby with the boys?’

He cast me an amused smile. ‘I’ve been out with a couple of those, actually.’

‘I thought you might have. Ever been married?’

‘Just once,’ he replied. ‘I was married once.’

We went on talking for a time, one of those conversations when you skirt around topics, trying each other out for size, conscious not to offend or try too hard to impress. Our exchanges were frisky and teasing, but the whole time I was more than a little guarded on account of the Scott situation never being far from my mind.

‘So,’ Henry said, after we’d discussed films, musicians we found irritating, foreign places we’d like to visit. I was relieved he didn’t start banging on about his bucket list, as so many of the men I knew did, not realizing their list was exactly the same as everyone else who read GQ: scuba dive on the Great Barrier Reef, live in Barcelona for a year, get their pilot’s licence. ‘So, you’re seeing someone from work?’ said Henry casually.

This caught me off guard. I’d hoped he’d not really registered Celia’s comment of earlier.

As I stumbled on my words, he said, ‘I can’t think who it might be. Not Wayne, surely?’

‘No,’ I shot back quickly. ‘No, not Wayne.’

He blew out his breath, smiling. ‘I couldn’t really picture that relationship. If I’m being honest.’

I took a swig and stalled, thinking through the best way to proceed. If I admitted to seeing someone – anyone (they didn’t actually have to exist) – I would have an exit strategy.

I could say I was pretty much forced into this date by his sister, Nadine, and was seeing someone secretly that no one knew about.

That’s what I should have said.

That would have been the sensible thing to do. To get out now before anyone got hurt.

Except I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Henry was too damned beautiful and I was already captivated. I had the sense that, even if I tried to go ahead and tell Henry I was involved with another man, something completely different would shoot out of my mouth.

‘I don’t mean to pry,’ said Henry, cajoling softly, ‘but, obviously, it would be nice to know if I’m wasting my time here.’

I drained my bottle.

‘There’s no one,’ I said firmly, and he raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘I was seeing a guy, but it’s over. I fobbed my neighbour off with that lie because she’s always trying to set me up. I told her I was seeing someone from work just to, you know …’

‘Oh,’ he said, looking relieved and genuinely pleased at the same time. ‘Oh, well, that’s good then. Didn’t want to have to fight over you.’

I smiled weakly.

‘Not least because I’m a shitty fighter,’ he added, as he passed me another bottle.

‘What
are
you good at? Just out of interest,’ I asked.

‘Me?’ he replied, and without missing a beat, said, ‘Living.’

‘What kind of answer is that?’

‘The only answer I have.’

I laughed and began picking at the wet label on the side of the beer bottle. ‘That does sound rather big-headed,’ I said.

‘Does it?’ he replied. ‘I don’t mean it to. I’m not saying, “Hey, isn’t my life great, isn’t yours rubbish?” Just that I try to spend my days doing as many of the things that I enjoy and hardly any time doing the things I don’t.’

‘Such as working,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Such as that.’

He tipped the neck of the bottle of his strawberry ale against mine. ‘Cheers,’ he said happily.

Foxy was yapping in the garden when we returned.

‘Be quiet!’ yelled Celia, before blowing her whistle.

Not wanting Henry to see the state of the interior of my home, and also, not wanting him to be around when George returned, I didn’t ask him in for coffee. In fact, I’d said goodbye to him as I’d closed the car door. We didn’t kiss. Celia and Dennis were enjoying the last of the evening sun on their newly purchased bench seat, and it would have been supremely awkward.

Nonetheless, Henry took it upon himself to follow me to my front door.

‘Nice time?’ asked Celia, and I mumbled that it was lovely, thanks. I was aware of her shooting Dennis a look. She now thought I was the type of woman who sabotaged every relationship by being too picky. She didn’t have to say it. It was there, plain as day, in the lines of disapproval at the corners of her mouth.

Turning the key in the lock, I said to Henry, ‘I’d invite you in, but my son …’

I let the words hang, hoping he’d make the leap between George arriving home soon and his presence being inappropriate.

‘Then invite me in,’ he said.

‘George will be back.’

‘So, you don’t have friends round?’ he asked mildly. ‘Not ever?’