The Two Week Wait (6 page)

On the corner, lit by the orange glow of streetlights, is a group of young women in short skirts, high heels and T-shirts replete with fairy wings. In their midst is a white-tulle-clad
bride-to-be. It’s so cold and blustery, they should be freezing, but their whoops and guffaws suggest they are too tipsy to feel chilly. Two sprucely dressed men are waiting at the roadside
with a Jack Russell; the dog is straining at the leash, scenting the salty air of his beach playground. And half sitting on the balustrade opposite, a young man is hunched over and blowing on his
hands to keep warm. He looks up and down the seafront and gets to his feet as he sees someone headed towards him. The two come together, there is a quick glance to ensure no one is watching, a
shuffling of hands and pockets, then they part and go their separate ways. Lou can read the signs; a drug deal.

She waits until they’ve gone, then cautiously heads down the steps and onto the beach. With a crunch of trainers on stones she makes her way towards the sea, sits on the shingle, as close
to the water as she dares. The waves are up, crashing in giant furls of white spray, rolling back pebbles with a clatter. It’s dark; the lights of the pier barely illuminate the
slate-coloured water, and purple clouds form strange and sinister shapes at the horizon like vast uncharted mountain ranges. The air is damp and soon so is Lou’s hair; she can feel salt on
her fingers, sticky. Even in her parka she is cold, but she doesn’t care.

How different this feels from the beach of summer days, when the seafront is full to the brim with excitable children and put-upon parents, youths full of derring-do and pink-skinned pensioners;
where the sounds and smells of beatboxes, different languages, barbecues and picnics assault her senses. Down here she feels a thousand miles from the seaside resort of dirty postcards and Day-Glo
rock, drag queens and dubious assignations. And yet she loves this Brighton as much as, if not more than, its alter ego. The elements are what give the place its
gravitas
; they remind the
inhabitants they mustn’t go too wild, get too big for their boots, for they are, after all, only humans perched on the edge of the ocean, and the sea is bigger and more powerful than any of
them.

She digs her hands deep into the pebbles, feels the cool round hardness against her fingers; recalls the earth, soft and malleable by contrast, of her father’s grave. And she thinks yet
again of Anna’s question: does she want children,
really
? She can’t stop mulling it over. If her father’s death, then witnessing that of Karen’s husband Simon, has
made Lou understand something of the fragility of life, this recent operation has forced her to confront her own mortality, and alongside it the nature of her being, her womanhood. Sitting here on
the beach brings home to her why she wants to be a mother; she wants to be part of the earth, the cycle of things, to help give meaning to her place on the planet.

*  *  *

Rich opens the door of the hotel suite. Cath steps inside, he follows.

‘Bit posher than home,’ he says.

‘That’s an understatement.’ She paces the carpet, a lioness exploring new territory. She runs her fingertips over the cool glass of the coffee table, strokes the velvet of the
sofa and the heavy silk brocade of the curtains.

‘My colleague George puts so many clients up here, he got us a special deal, just for tonight.’

She circles the suite again – it must be twice the size of their bedroom in Leeds – then returns to the window, slides open the double doors and steps out onto the balcony. The night
is notably warmer than it has been in Yorkshire; the tightly packed buildings trap the heat, and the air-con units on neighbouring rooftops doubtless contribute, too. It’s a strange vista: a
mixture of chimney pots and TV aerials, fire escapes and the backs of theatres; not exactly Covent Garden at its most beautiful. It reminds Cath of an article she saw in a magazine, where two
photographs were placed side by side. One showed the front of a model: tall, slim, elegant, hair immaculately styled, clothes fitting like a dream. Alongside was the same model in the same outfit,
but this time from the rear, revealing the back of the dress pinned by a dozen bulldog clips to make it fit her, hair a ghastly tangle, shoes too big and clearly uncomfortable. Here she can see the
machinery behind the myth-making, what it takes for the capital to put on its show for the people at street level.

Rich interrupts her thoughts. ‘Have you seen this?’

She steps back inside but she can’t see her husband anywhere. Maybe he’s hiding behind the drapes of the four-poster.

‘I’m in here.’

She follows his voice to the bathroom.

‘Wow.’ The walls are floor-to-ceiling caramel marble; there’s more beneath her feet. The lights, the mirrors, the taps, the toothbrush holder – every fixture oozes
luxury. The shower-head is the size of a dinner plate.

‘Quite something, eh?’

‘You’re telling me.’

‘George did say he sends all his prima donna stars here.’

‘The size of that tub!’

‘I know.’

‘And don’t you just love the way hotels do this with towels?’ She fingers the soft downy row. ‘Why can’t we ever get ours lined up like that?’

‘Love, if you ever did anything so pathological, I’d have to leave you.’

‘Says the man who never picks his up off the floor.’

‘Anyway. Fancy a bath, madam?’ He bows with a manservant flourish.

‘Madam might be persuaded.’ She lifts her nose, mock prim.

‘Together?’ He raises an eyebrow, teasing.

‘Be rude not to.’

While Rich sets the water running and gauges the temperature, Cath locates a bottle of bath oil and adds a far bigger gloop than she would at home.

Minutes later she and her husband are toe to toe. She lies back, eyes level with his chest. The hairs are greying but she rather likes that. He’s still very attractive, and his stomach is
so pleasingly taut . . . More than can be said for me, she thinks ruefully, all too aware of the rolls of fat on her midriff.

Compared to when they first met, it’s rare for Cath to feel sexy; lately she’s been inclined to recall the days she felt hungry to make love with sadness and more than a touch of
guilt. When she was very ill, she didn’t feel remotely attractive – having her ovaries removed was hardly conducive to swinging from the proverbial chandeliers – and she still
gets more tired than she used to. Rich has been supremely patient; nonetheless, his healthy libido is one of the reasons Cath fell for him initially, so she can hardly expect him to change on that
score. He travels a lot for work; she fears he must be tempted occasionally – she’d hate to lose him because he isn’t sexually satisfied at home. So whilst she’s never faked
an orgasm or gone along with lovemaking when she
really
couldn’t bear to, she has found herself yearning for the self-confidence and sheer animal lust she once had.

Yet here, in the warmth of the water, in such sumptuous surroundings, Cath feels so relaxed and sensual that her consciousness of her imperfections – the rolls on her scarred tummy, her
cellulite-ridden thighs, her wispy hair – ebbs away. So what if she’s no supermodel? Instead, it’s as if she sees herself through Rich’s loving gaze: her breasts, still pert
and full; the curve of her hips, feminine and inviting; the arch of her throat, smooth and seductive. She reaches under the water and finds to her delight that Rich is full of desire too. Slowly,
with practised strokes, she massages him. The water makes soft splashy noises in rhythm with her movements.

Lucky the taps are in the middle, she thinks, as he stretches back, rests his head against the end of the bath, closes his eyes and gives in to the pleasure.

*  *  *

It’s nearly midnight. Unless she leaves any minute, Sofia will miss the last train.

‘Fancy another?’ Malene jerks her head towards her vodka shot. The bar is heaving, music blasts from speakers beside them; Sofia can barely hear her. What the hell. It’s been
ages since she’s done this. And Malene is hot – blonde and slim and pretty: exactly the kind of woman Sofia likes. Swedish or something. Strobe lights flash, dry ice pours from the
stage, an other-worldly mist of fluorescent pink and electric blue.

Dada, dom, dom, dom
– the beat segues into a different intro; it’s a track she loves.

‘No. Come on, let’s dance.’

She steers Malene through the crowd and they find a tiny spot on the floor. Sofia sashays her hips, Malene gyrates against her – whether deliberately or because there’s no room to
move otherwise, Sofia doesn’t care. She’s been madly busy at work; these days she has to act like the boss, restrain herself from confiding in colleagues she used to be intimate with.
Plus Lou’s been in hospital; she’s been so fragile and needy, Sofia could hardly offload onto her. But now her girlfriend is sixty miles away, her workmates have gone.

The rhythm shifts up a gear, lights whirl. A sci-fi rainbow colours a hundred faces, bodies, the ceiling, the walls. The track reaches its crescendo: a chorus that begs to be chanted en masse.
The floor beneath Sofia’s feet judders. All around people are sweating, writhing, cheering, so tightly packed they’re keeping one another upright. It’s impossible not to be caught
up in the sheer hedonism.

Sofia raises her arms in celebration.

Aah, Soho . . .

This is where she belongs.

‘Anna?’

‘Speaking.’

‘I’m sorry to bother you so early.’

‘Mm . . . ?’ She is croaky; Lou has woken her. ‘What time is it?’

‘Seven thirty. I can phone back—’

‘No, it’s fine. Is everything all right?’

Lou badly needs to talk to someone. She’s had a dreadful night, jerking awake at intervals, expecting to hear Sofia stumbling round the room: drunk, but home. Yet there’s still no
sign of her.

‘It’s Sofia.’

A rustling of sheets as Anna sits up. ‘Has something happened?’

‘I don’t know. She didn’t come back last night.’

‘Oh Lord. Do you know where she went?’

Lou has imagined all sorts, but she decides to stick with the facts. ‘She texted to say she was going into London with her colleagues. It was someone’s leaving do.’

‘I see . . . And she didn’t come home?’

‘No.’

A pause, then, ‘I wouldn’t worry too much, not yet. She probably got drunk or something, crashed at a friend’s. Was it a good mate who was leaving?’

‘Not as far as I know.’

‘I presume you tried calling her?’

‘It goes straight to answerphone.’

‘Maybe it’s run out of juice.’

‘I guess, but she could have borrowed someone else’s to let me know she was staying in town, don’t you think? I’ve been worried sick.’

‘Mm, she must have known you’d be anxious, and she isn’t normally that thoughtless. What are her colleagues like?’

‘I don’t really know them, though they seem a nice enough bunch. They’re fairly tame, most of them, from what I gather. They all live in London though, other than Sofia.’
Lou endeavours to control her panic. ‘I’m sure something has happened.’

‘It does sound a bit strange for her not to have got herself home. Maybe she just lost track of time. Has she ever done this before?’

‘Stayed out all night, you mean? No. Although . . . ’ Should Lou confess this? It seems unfair to interrupt her friend’s Saturday lie-in and not tell her the truth. ‘She
has been a bit distant lately.’

‘Really? Why’s that?’

‘I guess . . . Oh, I don’t know. This operation . . . Though maybe I’m being unreasonable.’

‘Tell me.’

‘It seemed to freak her out rather – so she’s not been quite as supportive as I thought she would be.’

‘Oh dear, Lou, I’m sorry. I had no idea.’

‘It’s not your responsibility.’

‘No, but, well, I’d have been more hands-on myself, if I’d known. You’ve always been there for me.’

‘I didn’t want to make a fuss.’

‘So in what way wasn’t she supportive?’

‘It’s hard to describe . . . ’ Lou is torn between wanting to share her fears and loyalty to her girlfriend. ‘I hoped she’d take more time off work to be with me,
perhaps.’

Anna harrumphs.

‘Well, no, she did . . . She collected me from the hospital.’

‘So I should hope!’

‘And she took the rest of that day off.’

‘Big deal! It’s a major operation you’ve just had.’

‘She is pretty busy at the office.’

‘I think that’s pathetic, if you want my opinion. God knows, you’re hardly demanding. If I was in your position, well, she’d never have heard the end of it. But
you’re so good at caring for yourself – you never ask for people to look after you.’

Though she knows Anna means well, this isn’t entirely helping. ‘I’d feel so much better if I only knew where she
is
,’ says Lou. She pictures where Sofia might have
stayed, and with whom, and shudders. ‘I think you’re probably right; she’s got drunk.’ She hesitates, then admits, ‘I guess she might be having some sort of wobble
about us.’

‘She doesn’t know how lucky she is!’

Lou laughs.

‘Look, I don’t think you should just sit there, waiting for her to come home. Unless you really believe she might be in some kind of trouble?’

‘No.’ Given Sofia’s recent behaviour, the evidence suggests she is not in actual danger.

‘Why don’t you come round here for coffee?’

‘Erm, that would be nice, but—’

‘Oh no, of course, you’re recuperating – how thoughtless of me. Do you want me to come to you?’

‘Don’t worry, I’m not that bad.’

‘Still, I thought you were supposed to take it easy?’

‘It’s been over a fortnight . . . ’ There is another issue, and if Anna is going to help Lou see everything more clearly, she’d best explain. ‘The thing is, Sofia
and I were supposed to be going to this show in London today.’

‘Oh?’

‘Now we’re talking this through, I think that might be why she’s not come home.’

‘Really? What sort of show could possibly make her do that?’

‘Well, it’s the Alternative Parenting Show, you see.’

Silence. Eventually, ‘I’m sorry, but you’ve lost me.’