What Might Have Been (4 page)

‘Well, to . . .’ Evan wanted to kick himself at his insensitivity. ‘No, I suppose there wouldn’t be any.’

‘Quite.’ She picked up her drink and drained the rest of it, and Evan was grateful for a chance to change the subject.

‘Another one?’

‘I don’t have to sing for it, do I?’

Evan laughed. ‘Not unless you want to.’

‘I think you know the answer to that,’ Sarah said, then she stood up. ‘And I’ll get these. What would you like?’

Evan smiled up at her. ‘Surprise me.’

She regarded him for the briefest of moments, then walked round to his side of the table, sat down on his lap, and kissed him full on the lips.

And Evan found himself thinking it was the best surprise he’d ever had.

5

E
van lay in the semi-darkness and watched Sarah sleeping, the duvet clutched protectively to her chest, remembering a quote he’d read in an Oscar Wilde anthology about all American women behaving as if they were beautiful and that being the secret of their charm. From what he’d seen so far, Sarah behaved as if everyone else was. He’d already decided it was one of the things he liked best about her.

Miles Davis’s
Kind Of Blue
was playing softly in the
background
– she’d set it on ‘repeat’ when they’d gone to bed – and he
contemplated
getting up to switch it off, but she was
looking
so peaceful next to him that he didn’t want to do anything to
disturb h
er.

He gazed around the unfamiliar bedroom. Apart from their clothes, which were strewn across the floor (and in the case of his boxer shorts, he was embarrassed to note, hanging from one of the light fittings), it was pretty tidy – tidier than his, at least – but without the usual personal touches and adornments he’d come to expect whenever he’d spent the night at a girlfriend’s house. If anything, it looked almost temporary, like some hotel room, and as if the occupant was just passing through, and Evan found himself hoping that wasn’t the case.

The glow from the clock on the bedside table caught his eye – four a.m., he noted disappointedly. Not that he had anywhere to be – at least, not until his audition – Evan just didn’t want what had already been the best night of his life to end. They’d left Secret straight after they’d kissed – to a round of applause, which had embarrassed Sarah a second time until he’d reminded her it was probably for her singing and not the kiss – and driven back through the still-teeming streets, Sarah wide-eyed at the late-night life in this part of London, stopping only to pick up Turkish food from a stall behind Borough Market, which they’d taken back to her flat to eat. Though it was still sitting in its container on the hallway table – the only hunger they’d felt when they’d got home had been for each other.

He was a little surprised to find that sleep wouldn’t come, especially given the intensity with which they’d leapt on each other once they’d shut the front door, and Evan smiled at the memory. He’d somehow known sex with Sarah was going to be good, but couldn’t have imagined it’d be
that
good, and – unless Sarah was as talented an actress as she’d turned out to be a singer – pretty incredible for her, too.

Suddenly thirsty, he reached for what had been a half-full bottle of Moët that Sarah had retrieved from the fridge on their way to the bedroom. Finding it empty, he slipped out of bed and –
careful
not to wake her – made his way out of the bedroom. He padded along the hallway until he located the kitchen, feeling slightly self-
conscious
as he walked naked through someone else’s flat, and
fumbled
for the light switch.

‘Don’t mind me!’

Evan wheeled around in shock. Leaning against the worktop, eating ice-cream straight from the tub, was a blonde girl about his age, dressed – barely – in a vest-top and pyjama bottoms, and strikingly pretty which, for some reason he couldn’t fathom, seemed to make his predicament worse. He quickly flicked the kitchen light off, and grabbed the tea towel from where he’d spotted it hanging on the front of the oven.

‘Sorry,’ he said, covering himself with it as best he could, before cautiously switching the light back on with his elbow.

‘No need to apologise,’ said the girl. ‘Unless you’re here to
burgle
the place?’

‘Naked?’

‘You never know. I’ve watched
C.S.I.
You might simply be trying not to leave any fibres. People have been caught and convicted on less.’

‘I’m not here to steal anything, honest,’ he said, his heartbeat slowly returning to normal. ‘After all, where would I put it?’

‘Now there’s a question.’ The girl grinned. ‘Sarah didn’t tell me she was entertaining this evening.’

‘She didn’t tell
me
she had a flatmate.’

‘Ah. And you’re naked in the kitchen because . . .?’

Holding the tea towel like a matador whose cape had shrunk in the wash, Evan indicated the fridge with his elbow. ‘I was after something to drink.’

‘Well, you’ve come to the right place.’ The girl reached over and retrieved a carton of orange juice from the refrigerator door, then found a glass on the draining board and looked around for something to wipe it with, though when her eyes alighted on Evan’s groin area she evidently changed her mind. ‘I’m Grace, by the way.’

‘You’ll excuse me if I don’t shake your hand?’

‘Of course.’ Grace smiled. ‘So, you work with Sarah?’

‘Me? No. I’m a musician. My name’s Evan.’

‘Oh. Right. Sorry.’ She sounded a little surprised, though Evan realised that could of course simply be a reaction to her seeing him like this. ‘Juice do you?’

‘Sure.’

Grace filled the glass. ‘Please. Sit,’ she said, placing it on the table in front of him and nodding towards the nearest chair, but Evan shook his head.

‘Better not,’ he said. ‘The towel doesn’t quite go, you know, right round.’

‘Suit yourself.’

He stared at the glass, and Grace frowned.

‘Bits a problem?’

‘Pardon?’

‘The orange juice.’ She pointed to the wording on the side of the carton. ‘It’s got “bits” in. And not everyone likes . . .’

‘No. That’s fine. It’s just . . .’ Evan glanced down at the tea towel. ‘Only one pair of hands.’

‘Ah.’ Grace snapped the lid back onto her tub of ice cream. ‘In that case I’ll leave you to it,’ she said, slotting it back into the freezer compartment. ‘It was nice to meet you, Evan.’

‘And you, Grace.’

She made her way out of the kitchen, and Evan stood and listened until he heard what he assumed must be her bedroom door shutting, then downed the glass of juice in one and hurried back along the hallway. As he closed Sarah’s bedroom door behind him, he saw she was watching him from the bed.

‘Dare I ask?’

‘I just met your flatmate.’

‘And she asked you to help with the dishes?’

‘No.’ He slipped back under the duvet. ‘But I was naked. And this was the only cover to hand,’ he said, waving the tea towel in the air.

‘Which she’ll never want to use again, probably.’ Sarah smiled as she snuggled up against him. ‘Sorry. I thought she was on nights this week.’

‘Nights?’

‘She’s a doctor. Here at Guy’s Hospital. Psychiatric department, in fact.’

‘Really? She doesn’t look . . .’

‘Not all blondes are dizzy, Evan.’

‘I was going to say “old enough”.’

‘She’s thirty-three.’

Evan lay there for a moment, and realised he knew more about Sarah’s flatmate after that short briefing than he did about Sarah herself. ‘So,’ he said, as casually as he could. ‘Tell me about
yourself
.’

‘Jeez. What kind of a question is that?’

Sarah had propped herself up on one elbow, and as she adjusted the duvet, Evan tried not to stare at her exposed breast. ‘Well, I just thought, now that we’d, you know . . .’

‘Fucked?’ said Sarah mischievously, and Evan’s eyes widened, but he supposed she was right. After all, you could hardly call what they’d just done ‘making love’, and ‘had sex’ hardly did it justice.

‘Yeah. I was hoping we could share something else. Apart from bodily fluids.’

She curled a leg suggestively around his thighs. ‘What did you want to know?’

‘Well, your surname would be a start.’

‘It’s Bishop.’

‘And?’

‘Just Bishop,’ she said, plumping up the pillow beneath her head and lying down next to him. ‘I know most of you English all have these posh double-barrelled names, but we Yanks like to keep things simple.’

‘No, I meant
and
what do you do, how old are you?’ He stared up at the ceiling. ‘What’s your favourite colour?’

‘Of what?’

‘Huh?’

‘
What’s your favourite colour
?
What am I – five years old?’

‘I hope not, otherwise I’m in serious trouble.’

She turned her head and looked at him. ‘Okay. Well . . . colour? I’d have to say “red”, if we’re talking wine. Otherwise black.’

‘Black’s not really a colour.’

‘Pardon?’

‘It’s an absence of colour.’

‘It’ll be the colour of one of your eyes in a minute, if you continue being a wise ass.’ Sarah grinned at him. ‘I’ve just turned thirty-four. And I work in the City. That’s “City” with a capital “C”.’

‘The City’s a big place.’

‘For a bank called MC&P.’ She rolled over and reached for her handbag, retrieved a business card from an inside pocket, and handed it to him. ‘Strictly speaking, we’re what’s called a hedge fund. And no, that’s nothing to do with gardening, before
you ask.
’

‘I wasn’t going to.’

‘What we do is . . .’

Evan held his hand up. ‘Make a lot of rich people richer. Isn’t that what everyone in the City does?’

She laughed. ‘Most of them. Especially themselves.’

‘And do you enjoy it? The work, I mean.’

Sarah paused. ‘Not much.’

‘Why not?’

‘Sometimes it can get a little . . . complicated.’

‘What is it you do, exactly?’

‘I’m in Risk Management.’

‘Oh. Right.’

Sarah raised one eyebrow. ‘Do you know what that is?’

‘Will I understand if you tell me?’

‘Probably not. Some days I don’t get it myself. And they’re the days I don’t enjoy.’

‘So leave.’

‘Yeah, right. Great strategy.’

‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘Because I’ve worked too hard to get where I am to give up on it. And where would I go, for one thing?’

‘There’s always somewhere.’

‘Really? Try suggesting that to the Palestinians.’

‘That’s hardly the same thing.’

‘Evan, not everyone’s as lucky as you. We can’t all do the thing we love.’

‘You mean “do” in the English sense, right, and not the
American
?’

‘Very funny.’

‘Okay, okay. Forget I said anything.’

Sarah rolled over and rested her chin on his chest, then noticed the faint, semi-circular scar on his navel. ‘What’s this from? Knife fight? Jealous girlfriend?’ She traced the outline with her index
finger
. ‘Alien emergence?’

‘Car crash.’ Evan took her hand and gently moved it away from the injury. ‘When I was a kid. Drunk driver.’

‘Were you hurt badly?’

‘Nothing that couldn’t be fixed,’ he said, though in truth, it had been touch and go, and even now, on cold days, Evan’s insides ached where they’d stitched him back together.

‘What happened to the drunk?’

‘He died. Along with my mother, unfortunately.’

Sarah sat up suddenly. ‘Evan, I’m so sorry.’

‘It was a long time ago.’

She shook her head. ‘Serves him right, though. How did your father cope?’

‘My father was the drunk, Sarah.’

She stared at him, wide-eyed, then half-smiled. ‘Aren’t we just the happy family pair?’

He puffed air out of his cheeks. ‘It’s not so bad. Mel’s been looking out for me as if he’s my dad, and Finn . . . well, he’s like
the brothe
r I never had. Besides, like you said earlier – what can you do?’

Sarah squeezed his hand. ‘Still, least we won’t have to endure any of those dull Christmases at the in-laws’.’

‘Quite.’ Evan flipped over onto his stomach. ‘So, where
were w
e?’

‘You were pumping me. For information.’

‘I was, wasn’t I? Right. Important question coming up . . .’ He looked directly at her. ‘What’s your favourite food?’

‘Sushi.’

Evan made a face. ‘And there was I thinking we had all this stuff in common.’

‘Huh?’

‘It’s just . . . they treat it like some amazing delicacy, charge you loads of money for it, and . . .’

‘And what?’

‘It isn’t even
cooked
.’

Sarah burst out laughing, and Evan picked his pillow up and hit her playfully with it. ‘Okay, okay,’ he said. ‘Favourite food: Sushi. Duly noted.’

‘What are you doing, anyway?’ She wrestled the pillow from him. ‘Writing my résumé?’

‘No. Just trying to work out where I can take you to dinner some time. Assuming you’re not just . . .’

‘What?’

Evan rolled back over and did his best to look vulnerable. ‘Using me for sex.’