Grace comes to find me in the kitchen. ‘Nancy’s mum’s on the phone,’ she says in a breathless voice.
‘For me?’
She nods, chewing her lip and fidgeting.
I put down my cup of coffee, walk into the hall and take up the receiver. I don’t know Nancy’s mom very well. She’s from New York originally, works in an office, and always seems in a hurry, rushing around in her smart clothes, calling to me from the window of her big car.
‘Catrin?’
I stall. For a horrible second, I can’t remember her name. And then it comes to me. ‘Hi, Beth.’
‘I’ll get right to the point,’ she says. ‘I like the novel a lot. Could you come in for a meeting, say, tomorrow afternoon?’
‘Excuse me?’ My mind is blank. I panic. She’s gotten the wrong person.
Grace has appeared. She sits on the bottom step of the stairs, arms looped around her knees, grinning up at me. I make a what’s-going-on? face at her. She just grins harder.
‘Sorry,’ I say into the phone, clearing my throat. ‘You were saying?’
‘Grace gave me the manuscript of The Time-Jumping Detectives a few weeks ago. I’m afraid it’s taken me this long to read it.’
‘Grace gave you my book?’
‘Yes.’ She sounds impatient. ‘Didn’t you know?’
‘No.’
There’s a pause. ‘I see. I did think it was a little odd to send it through her. So,’ she clears her throat, ‘I suppose the question is, are you interested in having it published?’
I run my tongue over dry lips, making the effort to steady my breathing. I don’t have to think about my answer.
‘Good. Then we can discuss it tomorrow. There’s more work to be done on it, some edits I’d like to talk over with you. Say four o’clock?’
‘Right,’ I say, gripping the edge of the table. ‘Tomorrow. Yes. Sure.’ I swallow. ‘Where?’
She gives me the address, and I fumble with the pencil attached to the pad we keep by the phone.
‘You don’t have an agent, I understand?’
‘No.’
‘No matter. You might want to find someone to represent you now.’
She’s gone. I’m holding a purring phone. I put it down. My fingers are damp. I look at Grace, widening my eyes, shaking my head. ‘Holy Toledo!’
She laughs, getting up and coming over to me. ‘She loved it, didn’t she?’
‘What made you give it to her?’
‘I told Nancy about it, and when you were out, we sneaked into your study to read it. She said it was great, better than most of the stuff her mum publishes,’ she shrugs thin shoulders, ‘and I just had the idea, you know, that maybe her mum would love it too.’
I rub my forehead. ‘Wow. I need to sit down.’ I fold onto the bottom step. ‘You are … you are incorrigible, and an amazing person, Grace Dunn. I was preparing myself to send it off and get rejections again, like last time. I just …’ I look at her. ‘I never dreamed it’d be good enough, that it would be possible …’
Grace laughs. ‘I believed in you.’
Her words trigger a memory. A darkened bedroom in Atlantic City. Sam’s hands in mine. I close my eyes, pushing the image away, then open them again. ‘Hey,’ I say. ‘How about supper out tonight, with your dad. To celebrate?’
‘Oh.’ She steps back. ‘Can’t. I have a rehearsal tonight. For the show. We’re doing the whole run-through.’
‘Of course you do. I forgot.’ She’s playing the lead. Rehearsals have been going on for weeks. ‘Maybe this weekend, then.’
I realise it’s Wednesday. Leo’s squash day. And he said he’d stay for a drink afterwards. He won’t be home till late. I have a burning need to go out – to do something to mark this. I’ll go stir-crazy on my own at home.
I pick up the phone and dial.
‘Good afternoon.’ Dougie’s voice is official. ‘Harpers and Queen, can I help?’
‘Dougie, it’s me,’ I say. ‘Something incredible just happened. Can you meet for a drink later, after work?’
‘Sounds intriguing.’ He pauses. ‘I should be through by, say, seven? Call for me in reception.’
Grace emerges from the bathroom dressed in her rehearsal clothes. She turns around so I can tame her hair. With a mouthful of bobby pins, I tell her, ‘I’m going to meet Dougie for a drink, but I’ll swing by and get you afterwards.’
‘Sweet,’ she says. Her new favourite word.
I don’t go back to the house after I’ve dropped her at Miss Miller’s Dance Academy. I’m still in my denim shorts and an old shirt of Leo’s, my skin smelling of pond water. I know Dougie will disapprove, but my nerves are too much for walls and rooms.
I drive into town. I love my new driving freedom. Leo made sure I had lessons, and when I passed my test, he got me a little runaround. I slip Sam’s album out of my bag and put it in the CD player. The sound of his voice surrounds me. His music fills me with energy, and as I drive, I smile, because I realise we’ve both fulfilled our dreams, even if we did it separately.
I wonder what edits Beth is talking about, what kind of illustrations the book will have, and when it will come out. I have no idea what sort of money I might get paid. I feel like such a rookie.
I’m too early for Dougie, so I drive slowly across Waterloo Bridge, looking at the wide expanse of river, and park up on the South Bank. Everyone is outside – it’s a perfect summer evening. Couples on benches coo at each other. Kids dodge in and out of legs, clutching ice creams. Roller-skaters whizz by. Under the pink-tinged light, the brutalist grey blocks above me take on a softer shimmer. I wander along the river, looking at the water, the boats, the buildings on the other side. There are performers doing tricks; a living statue painted silver stands motionless and unblinking on a box.
It’s as I walk past the Queen Elizabeth Hall that I see his face. Those almost-black eyes under dark brows, his long, crooked half-smile. I stop, my mouth dry, my heart thumping. It’s a poster advertising a gig by the Lambs. I look at the date. It’s tonight. There’s a ‘sold-out’ banner pasted across it.
I turn away, taking deep breaths.
I fumble in my bag, find a pen, tear a blank page out of my notebook. Perhaps it’s the confidence of knowing my novel is going to be published, or my reckless mood, or just the glory of the sun-soaked evening, but I want him to know that I’m in London, and that I still think of him. I want a connection. Even one as small as him reading a few scribbled words on a torn scrap of paper.
Sam, remember me? I’m living in London now. I’m married. I’ve heard your songs on the radio – I know you’ve made it big with your music. Just wanted to say well done. It was what you always wanted. Hope you’re happy. Love, Cat.
I walk into the foyer. It’s eerily empty. Too early yet for an audience to start milling about. I don’t know where I can leave my note. There’s someone in uniform behind a desk. ‘Hi.’ I smile a smile that I hope won’t make him think I’m a crazy fan. ‘I … I have a note for Sam Sage. I’m an … old friend. Is there somewhere I can leave it?’ I turn the small, folded square between my fingers.
He gives me a bored look. ‘Just go through to the green room,’ he says, inclining his head towards a door.
I look at the door and swallow. ‘Oh, right. Thanks.’
I push at it, go along a corridor, down some steps and through another door. There’s nobody about. I’m in a dim, deserted room. There are benches, chairs, a sofa with its back to me. A table stands against the wall with unopened bottles of wine and water. I wonder where to put the note.
It’s only as I walk around to the front of the sofa that I see him. He is asleep, taking up the length of it. I freeze. Suddenly the air in my lungs is too loud, the creak of my sandals against the floor deafening. I hold my breath, pinching the note hard, as if that could stop me from plummeting through time and space.
He’s snoring gently. His eyelashes are dark sweeps over his cheekbones, his lips parted a little. I’ve kissed that mouth, I think.
I sit on a chair opposite the sofa. I don’t take my gaze from his face. Should I wake him? Should I leave the note next to him and creep away? I decide on the second option. I am a coward. And then he opens his eyes.
I keep completely still, my face deadpan, as if I could scrabble into the centre of myself, hiding in plain sight. He blinks and widens his eyes, shock making his expression comical. It’s the trigger for a smile that bursts from deep inside me. And he echoes it, sitting up, raking a hand through his hair in a familiar gesture.
‘Cat?’ He gives a small dog-like shake. ‘I thought I was dreaming.’
He swings his legs around, plants his feet and stands in one easy movement, opening his arms. I walk into them without thinking, closing my eyes. Something that was lost reignites, that feeling I had with him years ago, alive inside me again. As if I’ve come home. The smell of him is pungent and male, earthy and sharp, like fresh wood shavings. It’s almost as if I could open my eyes and find myself in the funeral parlour again with him, with everything still before us.
He squeezes hard. ‘What are you doing here?’ He’s holding one of my hands. ‘I can’t believe it’s really you. Jesus. What a surprise. How did you know where to find me?’
‘I didn’t,’ I say, slipping my hand from his. ‘It just … happened.’
‘Can you stay? For the gig? We could see each other afterwards.’ He flicks a glance at his watch. ‘The others will be here soon.’
I shake my head. ‘I’m already late. I have to meet a friend. And after that, I’m collecting my stepdaughter.’
‘Stepdaughter?’ He takes a breath. ‘Well, how about a coffee then, tomorrow? We’re leaving at lunchtime. We’re doing a UK tour.’
‘Sure.’ I nod. ‘Coffee. Where shall we meet?’ I can’t stop looking at him. There are faint lines around his eyes and mouth, but otherwise, he’s hardly changed from the boy on the beach in Atlantic City. This is beginning to feel surreal, like an out-of-body experience.
‘Our hotel’s in Kensington,’ he’s saying. ‘I mean, I have a house here, but it’s easier to stay with the rest of the band, and anyway, Mattie’s there at the moment, my sister … Long story …’
‘Kensington? What’s the address?’
‘Yeah, sorry, it’s …’ He presses his fist to his forehead. ‘The Park Grand. Near the Cromwell Road.’ He’s flustered, but his nerves are making me calm. It’s okay, I tell myself. This is bound to trigger emotions. It’s probably shock. It doesn’t mean anything.
‘Got it,’ I say. ‘Eleven o’clock?’
I recognise the glint in his eyes, the slightly crooked teeth when he smiles. I thought I’d forgotten exactly what he looked like, but all the time, the print of him was there, stamped inside me.
‘Great.’ I take a step away, still looking at him. ‘Break a leg, I guess. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
He puts his fingers to his lips, and holds them up in a salute, in a kiss that isn’t blown.
I’m not sure how I drive, how I find my way to National Magazine House. My fingers tremble against the steering wheel, fumbling as I lock the car, dropping my keys, just missing a disaster down the drain. I clasp my hands as I ask the man on the front desk to tell Dougie I’ve arrived. Dougie takes one look at my face, and hurries me out of the smoky-mirrored reception into the streets of Soho.
We’re in the Groucho Club, at a corner table, two glasses of wine between us, before he says, ‘You were late. You’re never late. What’s going on?’
‘Sorry. About being late.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ He makes an impatient expression. ‘Tell me. From the beginning. This incredible thing?’ He leans closer, grinning. ‘Except I think I’ve guessed. You’re pregnant, aren’t you?’
‘What? No – no, it’s still not happening. In fact, I have a doctor’s appointment next week.’ I put my hand on my stomach for a moment. ‘Just a check-up. Leo’s insisting.’ I push my hair behind my ear impatiently. ‘I was ringing to tell you that my kids’ novel is going to be published – The Time-Jumping Detectives.’
Dougie gasps and grabs my arm. ‘Hen, that’s fantastic!’
‘Then I saw him. I saw Sam. Sam Sage.’
‘What?’
‘Of course I know who he is,’ he snaps. ‘The whole world does. What do you mean you saw him? Across the street? On a stage? On screen?’
‘In a green room. Just him and me.’
‘You’re kidding? No! What did he do when he saw you?’
‘He hugged me. It was like no time had gone by. He looked the same. It felt so … I don’t know … normal being with him. Even after everything that’s happened.’
‘Then what did you do? Just chat, or …’
‘We talked. I can hardly remember what we said now.’ I take a strand of my hair and roll it between my fingers. ‘I guess I was sort of in shock.’
‘And then you just left?’ He puts his hands to his head in a pantomime of despair. ‘You should have cancelled me!’
‘We’re meeting for a coffee tomorrow.’ I rub the back of my neck. ‘I’m surprised he didn’t throw me out. He must think I didn’t bother to reply to his letters. I’ve got to tell him. Remember?’ I bite my lip. ‘Mom burnt them.’
‘God, yes.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘But now … Oh my God, this is so romantic.’
‘No.’ I sit up, tugging at the collar of Leo’s shirt. ‘It’s not romantic. I’m married. And he’s probably in a relationship.’
‘Don’t you read the papers? He and his long-term girlfriend had a break-up.’ He looks smug. ‘Lots of photos of her in dark glasses, falling out of taxis drunk. That sort of thing.’
I frown at him. ‘Just gossip. Speculation. He could have a new girlfriend by now. Anyway,’ I shake my head, angry with myself, with the way the conversation is going, ‘that’s irrelevant. Obviously. It’s not going to be anything except … except a chance to say a proper goodbye, to set it all straight.’ I look down at my lap. ‘It’s my chance to apologise.’
Dougie sniffs loudly. ‘Your cheeks are on fire. Your eyes are bright enough that the beauty department would be asking what drops you’ve been using. Or could it be blue mascara?’ He leans close, squinting. ‘No.’ He wags his head back and forth. ‘It’s him. He’s got to you, hasn’t he?’
‘One coffee,’ I say. ‘That’s all. It’s the surprise of it – I mean, it was crazy, seeing him like that, and straight after the news about my book.’ I push my hair behind my ears again. ‘I have a meeting tomorrow with a publisher.’ I offer him a new topic, a distraction. ‘What should I wear?’
He looks at my shirt. ‘Something clean.’
I’m regretting telling him. He’s making it into something it’s not. It’s my fault. I’ve stumbled into a confession I shouldn’t have made. I finish my glass of wine, and explain that I have to leave to pick up Grace. Dougie sighs and tells me I’m no fun. But, craning his neck, he sees some people he knows at the bar.
We get up from the table. ‘Don’t say a word about this,’ I tell him. ‘Promise?’
‘Obviously.’ He kisses me on both cheeks, and sways through the tables towards the bar, waving at someone.
As I drive north through the evening traffic, I think about whether I’m going to tell Leo about meeting Sam today, and our appointment tomorrow. It’s complicated – he knows nothing of my history with Sam, and there seems too much to explain. I don’t want him to feel jealous or anxious. Especially as he doesn’t need to. I won’t see Sam again. We live in separate worlds.
I drive past Regent’s Park, noticing lovers walking arm in arm through the warm night. I look away, keeping my attention on the stop lights ahead. But shouldn’t I at least try and tell Leo the truth? I voice the question aloud, as if I’m checking in on it, weighing it up, giving it due consideration. But all the time, I know the answer is no. I want to own this for myself: an hour in a coffee shop with Sam. After all these years, it’s not much. But it’s mine.