‘It’s okay, honestly.’ He laughs.
‘—But I have to ask you one very important question,’ she adds. She laces her fingers together and leans towards him.
His brown eyes catch the light of the fire. ‘What’s that?’
‘Er… why are you here, Michael?’
He frowns, as if not getting it. ‘You mean, why aren’t I in London?’
‘Yes!’ she said emphatically. ‘You should’ve told us she was coming over. We could’ve planned our trip for the new year, or spring or even later?—’
‘I actually didn’t know,’ he cuts in, ‘when we arranged your visit. And also, there are guests coming?—’
‘But the family only booked in at the last minute,’ Lena reminds him.
‘Yes, but the other guy booked weeks ago and I didn’t want to mess him around,’ Michael states firmly. ‘He seemed especially keen to stay here. Said it was exactly the kind of place he’d been looking for…’
‘Well, I think you should have,’ Pearl announces with uncharacteristic boldness. ‘A weekend in London with Krissy, who you talk to almost every day?’And who you’re besotted with,she wants to add.
Michael looks around at the three friends and shrugs in a ‘what-could-I-do?’ kind of way. ‘Just bad timing. But it’s not really, is it?’ he adds quickly. ‘It’s great you’re here. I couldn’t believe it, actually. That you could come up before Christmas.’
‘Neither could we.’ Shelley laughs.
‘Can we see a picture of her?’ Pearl asks. Michael looks surprised, but then goes to fetch his phone. They all crowd around him on the soft leather sofa as he brings up photos of Krissy. She’s strikingly beautiful, in her mid-forties perhaps – although they are all holding back from demanding further information. Her hair is glossy and dark, her skin creamy, her eyes big and brown. And something seems to happen to Michael as he talks about how she has brought up her son alone, and the child stays with her mother when Krissy is working. How she has worked hard all those years in order to raise him, and lives in a little wooden house by a river. He seems to light up, and appears a little surprised by his own effusiveness as he slips his phone into his pocket.
‘She sounds lovely,’ Shelley announces.
‘She is. But she also lives over three thousand miles away.’
Michael gets up then to let Stan out into the garden. As cool air gusts in, Shelley’s mind flickers to her terraced house and her life there. It’s okay most of the time. She loves her friendsand her job, and Martha and Fin of course, even though they’ve turned sour, like milk – Martha especially. And mostly, Shelley does the proverbial rolling-up-sleeves thing, and they all get by. But occasionally, she is startled by something – like a dazzling light shone into her eyes. And she can’t tell anyone – not even Lena or Pearl – that when the light shines, sheknowsit. That falling in love with Joel was a mistake.
Of course, if she hadn’t, there would be no Martha or Fin. But her mind doesn’t work that way when the light dazzles.
And here is a man who grafts away alone, and has a chance of happiness. What was that thing she’d spotted on Joel’s desk, when she’d ventured in to dust his studio? He’d written it on a scrap of paper and left it there.
Once your one life is gone, it’s gone.
Probably just a doodle, she’d surmised. And she thought it should be ‘hasgone’, rather than ‘is.’ But never mind that now, because the sentiment seems to ring loud and clear in her head.
Michael could go to London to see Krissy.
She looks at Lena and Pearl, who are admiring the hand-made ceramics dotted around the snug little room, and agreeing how perfect the cottage is. ‘Girls,’ she starts, biting her lip. ‘I’ve had an idea.’
‘What is it, Shell?’ Lena looks quizzical.
‘You’re going to think I’ve gone mad,’ Shelley replies. ‘But what if we can persuade Michael to go to London? D’you think we could look after things here?’
13
There are so many things Joel loves about London. The way it makes him feel, for one: buzzy and connected and at the centre of the world, as if every other place is a mere offshoot. He loves living in a city where there is the Tate Modern and the Royal Academy and the Barbican, although he rarely visits these places. In fact, the part of London he is especially keen on currently is a little one-bedroomed flat in a converted church in Finsbury Park.
The flat belongs to a photographer called Carmel Levine. Carmel doesn’t care that Joel is married and she isn’t remotely interested in his kids. He’d known her a little through a fashion magazine he’d worked on – the last staff job he’d had, before he went freelance – and then run into her by chance at a friend’s private view in Shoreditch. Joel had only gone along for the free booze.
He had always found her attractive, but that night she seemed especially so. Gone was the sharp brown bob; she had let her natural silver grow out, and it was warmer –sexier.Coupled with her customary red lipstick, it gave her the air of a French film actress, and Joel was delighted that she was givinghim so much attention that night. He’d always assumed that this confident six-footer with the body of a runway model thought he was a bit of a buffoon. However, that night they’d flirted wildly and gone on for more drinks. Then they’d headed back to the flat where Carmel lives alone.
The sex had been, to put it mildly, astounding and a world apart from Shelley in her nana-curtain pyjamas. They fell into a pattern of meeting once a week or so, always the same routine: quick pint in the pub at the end of her road and then back to her place.
There, things have been somewhatlessroutine. Out of bed, Carmel is all husky laughter and affectionate touches with everyone she encounters. In bed that first time, she had him blindfolded and lashed him to her bedhead with a pair of stockings. Since then he’s become accustomed to hearing her rummaging about, assembling her array of props, switching things on, ripping the packaging off various gizmos. He marvels at how a woman can exist in a compact little flat like this one, yet produce so much stuff. Where does it all go, he wonders? Is there a secret sex toy vault under the floor?
