Her smell faded after a few days. Even when he pressed his face deep into the pillow and inhaled. It’s a long time now since Cat was in Sam’s bed. He was angry and hurt after she left, confused that she’d asked for him then walked away. But later, he realised how difficult it would be for her to leave a family, a child. He thinks about her gambling father, how they continually moved from one city to the next, and how precious a real home must be, how hard to destroy it.
When Ben calls and says he has tickets for a new show in the West End, Sam says to count him in. He accepts most invitations that come his way. Or he walks around the corner to spend the evening with Mattie, helping River with his homework, sitting at their kitchen table.
He arrives at the crowded foyer of the Prince Edward in Soho with five minutes to spare. He squeezes past backs and elbows to get to Ben and his wife Boo. ‘This is Janie,’ Ben says. ‘A friend of Boo’s.’
A petite woman holds out a bejewelled hand. Sam takes it, and gives her a polite smile. Her bones feel fragile inside his grip. Several large rings bite into his palm. A bob of shining black hair swings in perfect symmetry at the line of her pale collarbone.
Sam turns to Ben and gives him a meaningful stare. He’s asked him not to arrange blind dates. All his friends do it. None of them, except Mattie and George, know about Cat.
In his Armani jacket, Ben looks very different from the skinny punk living in the Brixton squat. He’s an estate agent now. He always had a practical self-interest, a chameleon-like ability. He and Boo live in a five-bedroom house in Clapham with their twin boys. They laugh about their punk days.
Janie tells Sam she works as a finance director for an IT company. He struggles to think of suitable questions. He’s relieved when the warning bell summons them to their seats. He’ll make his excuses straight after the show, slip away home.
‘This was a big hit on Broadway last year,’ Boo is telling them as they settle in the plush red splendour of the stalls. ‘I love Gershwin,’ she adds.
In the interval, Janie murmurs, ‘I hate musicals. But when Boo said you were coming, I wanted to meet you.’ She touches his sleeve with red-tipped fingers. ‘I admire your music. The stuff you’re doing now especially.’
Sam’s mouth is dry. He’s furious with Ben for putting him in this situation. He waits for her to remove her hand, then shifts his weight back onto his heels. ‘Thanks,’ he says vaguely.
When Janie and Boo disappear into the ladies’, heads together, Ben gives Sam a glass of wine. ‘She’s a bit of a babe, don’t you think?’ he says. ‘She earns a fucking fortune, but get this, she works as a Samaritan in her spare time. She’s been to your gigs. She was very keen to meet you.’
‘I asked you not to do this,’ Sam says.
Ben grins. ‘Come on, mate. Everyone’s wondering when you’re going to settle down. I saw that photo in the paper last year. Your mystery girlfriend. How come we never met her? Was she a hooker? No shame in that. But people want to see you … happy.’
‘Trust me, there’s more to care about in this world than my love life. Janie seems like a nice person. But she’s not for me.’ Sam glances away, finishes his wine in one long swig and goes to the bar. ‘Same again,’ he says.
Sam groans. His throat is parched, his mouth tacky. Cardamom and garlic, alcohol and sweat seep from his pores. There’s an unfamiliar perfume too, on his skin, on the sheets. Black hair fans across the pillow next to him. Janie turns over, yawning. Sam keeps very still, as if she might not notice him.
‘Morning,’ she says, their faces inches apart. She grins.
‘Hi,’ he says, shuffling back and pushing up onto one elbow. ‘Um. Yeah. Morning.’
She stretches. ‘I’m starving. Do you have any food here? Or shall we go out and grab a croissant and coffee somewhere?’
‘Actually,’ he licks dry lips, ‘it’s pretty late, and I’ve got … stuff to do.’ He sits up. ‘I should really get going … sorry.’
‘Oh.’ The smile fades from her mouth. ‘No. Of course. I should too. Get going.’ She sits up, tugging the sheet around her narrow torso, her small breasts.
Sam blinks. He has little memory of what happened last night. An Indian meal. A lot of wine. Ben offered him a bump of snow in the lavatory. Then somehow he ended up in Islington with Janie. They had sex. The smell is everywhere, clinging like a stain. Janie’s perfect hair is mussed, flyaway strands standing up over the crown of her head. He feels like a shit.
‘Look,’ he says. ‘I really am sorry. This shouldn’t have happened.’
‘Why not?’ she asks, raising her pointed chin.
‘Because I’m in love with someone else.’
‘Oh …’ She shifts further away from him. ‘Who?’
‘Someone I’ve known for a very long time. She’s married.’
She raises an eyebrow.
‘I know.’ He shrugs. ‘A cliché, right? I’m an idiot. Or a bastard. Or both.’ He pushes at his eyebrows, stretching them upwards. ‘I shouldn’t have told you. But I wanted to be honest.’
Janie doesn’t say anything for a moment. She rubs her knuckles, twists her rings around her fingers. ‘Thanks, I suppose. For explaining.’ She shuffles over to the side of the bed and wraps the satin bedcover around her. ‘I can’t say I don’t feel a bit of an idiot myself, but … I don’t regret it.’
Her understanding makes Sam feel worse. He waves a hand towards the bathroom. ‘Have a shower. Take your time. I don’t have any food in the house, but I do have a stupidly expensive Italian espresso machine, if you want a shot of caffeine.’
‘Thanks. I’ll just get going.’ She takes small steps around the room picking up items of clothing with difficulty, hooking silky red things, a pair of strappy high heels. She turns at the door to the bathroom, clothes clutched to her chest. ‘You are a bastard, by the way. But I won’t say anything to anyone.’ She swallows. ‘About what you told me.’
Sam sits with his arms wrapped around his knees.
‘Actually,’ she says, ‘I feel sorry for you.’ And she disappears into the bathroom.
*
After Janie has left, he downs a strong espresso and pushes his feet into his old trainers. Ignoring his thumping head, he leaves the house and runs through the streets, finding his pace as he lopes along the long drag of Holloway, under scruffy autumnal trees, and then through a brief green space. He pants and struggles up the elegant hills of Highgate, the burning in his legs like a fire in his veins. He sees the gate to the Heath and sprints through. Running to the top of Parliament Hill, he staggers to a halt, his hands on his knees, gasping for breath. You’re hurting other people and you’re wasting your life, he tells himself. So what are you going to do about it?
It has to be more than words this time, he admonishes himself. Letting her go has to come from the very centre. Like the forgiveness he eventually felt for his father, it can’t be forced. Can he somehow find a way to leave his love for her behind? He wipes his sweating brow with the edge of his T-shirt. Perhaps if he saw her with Leo and the child … who, he supposes hazily, must be a teenager now … if he saw them together as a family, perhaps it would make him understand her real life properly. He doesn’t have a clue who she is in that other world. He’s completely shut out. Seeing her being a mother, a wife, might mean he could finally give up hope.
He makes his way slowly towards the bench – their bench – to sit on it one last time.