His instinct was to hug her and hold her close. Being with her again made him breathless with an uncomplicated happiness he’d almost forgotten was possible. And even though she’s been out of his life for years without explanation, and her hair smelled like muddy water, and she’s gone and got herself married and acquired a stepdaughter, none of it actually matters.
Last night’s performance passed in a blur. Afterwards, he lay awake till the early hours, memories of Atlantic City playing in his head. He’s wiped out. He rubs his face, the stubble scratchy, his furred tongue sticking to his teeth. He wonders what reasons she’ll give for not replying to a single letter, for just getting on with her life as if what they’d had meant nothing.
He has a strong espresso sent up with room service, a basket of croissants, some fruit. He needs to eat, to feed his brain, perk himself up. She must have seen him on TV or heard the Lambs on the radio at some point, yet she didn’t get in touch. He always hoped she’d write or phone or something, especially after ‘Ocean Blue’ came out. Island Records isn’t exactly hard to find. And how long has she been in London? To know she’s been here when he presumed she was far away in the States is disorientating. He eats three croissants without tasting them, getting buttery flakes on his chin, and has a long, hot shower. When he’s dressed, reception calls.
‘Tell her to walk down Hogarth Road, away from the Cromwell Road,’ he tells the man on the desk. He has a plan. ‘There’s a pub on the corner. The Stag and Hounds. I’ll meet her outside, in five minutes.’
He’s wearing his cap pulled down low, and sunglasses. She smiles, showing the gap in her teeth, the little crease above her top lip. ‘You’re in disguise,’ she says in a deadpan voice. ‘Anyone following you?’
‘There’re a few fans hanging around the entrance to the hotel,’ he says, feeling suddenly embarrassed. ‘I slipped out through the kitchens. Didn’t want you getting pushed around or anything. Some of these … kids … they can get a little overenthusiastic.’
‘Sorry.’ She flushes. ‘I don’t even know why I said that – I didn’t mean to tease you,’ she says. ‘I’m just nervous, I guess.’
A long chauffeur-driven car pulls up beside them. She startles. ‘It’s all right,’ he says quickly. ‘I ordered it. Will you come with me? I want to show you something,’ he explains as he opens the back door.
She peers into the leather interior of the car and turns to give him a quizzical look.
‘I know you’re not crazy about surprises.’
‘You remembered,’ she murmurs.
‘This is a good one,’ he says. ‘A good surprise.’ They lock gazes. ‘Trust me.’
Silently she slides onto the seat. He gets in next to her, and sits with his hands on his knees, hoping he’s doing the right thing. He has to keep telling himself that she’s married, that everything is different now. He snatches glances at her profile, wishing he knew what she was thinking.
‘The Heath?’ she says, as the car stops in the car park. She seems disappointed.
‘Maybe you’ve guessed already,’ he says. ‘Or maybe you don’t remember … but I want to show you the bench. The one I told you about?’
She looks at him with a strange expression he can’t interpret. ‘I know it well, Sam,’ she says in a low voice. She turns to walk in the direction of Parliament Hill. He follows, stumbling over the rough grass, confused, his plan falling in tatters behind him.
When they reach the lip of the hill, the bench is empty, the hawthorn leaves rustling in the breeze.
‘I come to the Heath a lot,’ she says, running her fingers over the worn armrest. ‘I live just around the corner. I found this eventually – took a while, reading all the inscriptions on all the benches. I used to come and sit here. I suppose I thought that one day I’d find you.’
She sits down, and he follows. ‘I don’t understand,’ he says. ‘You were looking for me?’
Her expression gives him his answer.
‘But … why didn’t you reply to my letters?’
Her cheeks flush. ‘I never knew you sent them. My mom took them and burnt them. I only found out recently.’ She looks at him, and then glances away. ‘I thought … I thought you’d forgotten me.’
He thinks he must have misheard. ‘You mother burnt them?’
She nods again. ‘She thought she was doing the right thing, however wrong it was.’
He feels sick. Her mother deliberately ruined their relationship. He recalls thinking he could have charmed her, won her around. Maybe he could have. But Cat never gave him the chance.
‘You didn’t show up at the airport.’ He’s aware of the tremor in his voice, and swallows hard.
She touches his arm. ‘I’d planned to come. Like we arranged. But my dad was arrested. I had to go home. Sort things out. It was an emergency. I had no way of contacting you.’ She keeps her hand there, and he feels her fingers burn through the fabric of his shirt. ‘Later, I wondered if I could have phoned the airport, paged you or something …’ She blinks. ‘It was hard to think straight. Then it was a mess – Dad behind bars, arranging lawyers, his trial. He refused bail. Mom lost the plot. All the time, I wanted to hear from you so bad.’ Her voice twists. ‘I was gutted when you didn’t write. When I thought you didn’t write,’ she corrects quickly.
‘Shit.’ He takes a long breath and sighs it out. ‘If only I’d known … If I’d had just a bit of hope, I would have got on a plane and come back for you.’
They both sit, silent, numb.
‘Why was he arrested?’
‘Embezzlement,’ she says. ‘I told you he was a gambler? He’s done his time. Doesn’t gamble any more. He’s settled in Alaska.’
‘And so … you somehow arrived in England. How long have you been here?’
‘About seven years.’
He stares at her. ‘I thought you were still in the US. On our American tour, each city we went to, I wondered if you might be at the concert.’
She gives him a puzzled look.
‘I phoned the funeral home,’ he explains. ‘They said you’d left Atlantic City. I thought you were somewhere else in the States.’
She shakes her head.
‘And now you’re married?’
‘Yeah.’ She roots about in her bag and finds a tissue. Blows her nose. ‘I got a job over here as an au pair to a little girl. Her dad’s a single parent. And … after a few years, he asked me to marry him.’
He works to keep his voice steady. ‘You love him?’
She pushes her hair from her forehead. ‘Of course.’ But she doesn’t meet his eyes.
He wants to be generous, do the right thing; he should tell her how happy he is for her, but the words won’t come. ‘We had something good, Cat,’ he says instead, shaking his head. ‘And we lost it.’
She seems to hold her breath, her eyes wide. Then her shoulders collapse. ‘It was my fault. I didn’t get to the airport. My mom destroyed your letters.’
‘It wasn’t your fault.’ He grabs at her hands, holds them tightly inside his own. ‘I should have believed in you more. I should have known you’d never have ignored my letters.’
She gives a small sob, and tugs her hands back from his. ‘I have to go soon. I have an appointment this afternoon. And there’s Grace … I have things to sort out for her costume, a performance she’s doing.’ She sits up straighter. ‘I can walk home from here.’
‘Yes.’ He nods. ‘Of course.’ She has a life that has nothing to do with him. He glances at his watch. His own life is calling, or the thought of Marcus is – because Marcus will kill him if he’s late for the bus. ‘Look, I’ve got to go too.’
‘Right,’ she says, nodding.
He doesn’t move. He can’t leave her like this. ‘I know you’re married. But …’ He folds his lips together, frowning. ‘But can I see you when the tour’s finished? I’ll be away for a couple of months. I could call when I’m back. I live in London now, so it would be easy … Just a coffee, or a walk in the park?’ He hurries on, not wanting a negative response. ‘We still have stuff to say, don’t we? Gaps to fill in? Just as friends.’ He swallows. ‘What do you think?’
She stares at the view. She takes a long time to speak, and he can picture the band gathered with their bags in reception, the bus out front, Marcus pacing the pavement. A crowd gathering.
‘Okay,’ she says. ‘But don’t phone. Write me. Here’s my address.’ She rips a page from a notebook in her bag and scribbles on it. She looks at his sceptical expression. ‘I know. The last writing plan didn’t turn out so well.’
He takes the folded page and slips it into his pocket. Of course, he realises he can’t phone her at her home; her husband might answer. He jots his own address down and hands it over as he stands up. ‘I’m going to have to run back to the car.’ He kisses her cheek, inhaling the scent of her skin; not pondy any more, but a suggestion of green sap, and something sweet, like maple syrup. ‘I’ll see you soon.’ He turns away, past the hawthorn bush. He doesn’t look back.
What the fuck are you doing, you total idiot? Those are the words Mattie will use when he tells her. She’s the only one he will tell. The only one who’ll understand, despite the tongue-lashing she’ll give him.
He’s on the sun-bright path leading downhill to the car park, and the heels of his boots clip the surface as he breaks into a jog and then a sprint. He pounds along, careening around corners, running faster than he’s run since he was on the beach in Atlantic City, hand in hand with Cat, escaping the shadowy threat behind them. A laugh bursts from his throat, his hat flying from his head, and he hopes to God that there are no photographers lurking behind any bushes.