Nattie left the office at noon. The weather had turned hot and humid again, summer stretching into September. She walked slowly to the tube station, far too nervous to stride out. Everything around her seemed in sharper focus, images to be recorded in a new file in her mind. Gauzy sunlight was glancing off the glass-sheeted blocks that had sprouted in South London while the huddled, narrow Victorian back streets, with their small terraces and dingy shopfronts, were shadowed in grey. The streets seemed less grimy than of old, despite the clusters of blown litter round the tube station entrance. They seemed to belong; it was how London was.
Waiting on the platform she rehearsed what to say. ‘I never imagined . . . I can’t believe this is happening . . . I’m married now, you know – to Hugo . . . You must come to supper, catch up with him again.’ No, not that. Hugo would want to believe it was a hopeful sign, yet in truth feel his world was imploding. One lunch.
At Baker Street Station she paused to comb her hair. It was shoulder-length, a little shorter than in Ahmed’s day. She had chosen to wear a sleeveless, belted shirt-dress, a pale apricot colour, and had been told all morning at work how fab she looked, that she had such a radiant glow.
Nearing the bistro her legs felt weighted, her steps slowing while her heart shot ahead: a thousand beats to one cautious step. Who did she ask for? Ahmed had messaged that he would book the table, but he had a new name. She would find him; the restaurant had been virtually empty last time. Bella Cucina was hardly the Ritz. Suppose he wasn’t there? She would wait till about one-fifteen – or one-thirty. Two at the latest.
She pushed on the glass entry door and saw him. He was by the bar just inside, leaning against a barstool, his back to the bar, keeping an eye on the door. He was leaning on the heel of his hand in a familiar pose. It was disorientating. The shock of seeing him was like a physical collision, the rocks of her life upheaving like an orogeny; she felt herself buckle.
He came up and looked about to kiss her, but didn’t. He simply touched her arm with one finger, resting it a moment, causing a burning sensation, as though heat was being concentrated through the small pouring end of a funnel.
‘I was watching for you out of the window as well as guarding the door,’ he said, staring as intently as always. ‘Covering all the bases. Hello, Nattie.’
‘Hello, Ahmed.’
‘Let’s get to a table,’ he said. ‘Can we sit anywhere?’ he asked a waiter, looking round at the desert of red-check vacancies.
The waiter gave a sort of Italian shrug of the eyes. ‘Sure. Some tables is reserved.’ He followed with menus as Ahmed, his hand lightly under Nattie’s elbow, went purposefully towards a table at the back.
The menus were lengthy and the waiter, different from the one at her lunch with Sadia, was another hoverer. ‘You like some drinks?’ Nattie longed to be shot of him.
‘Just a bottle of still water, and we’d like some time,’ Ahmed said impatiently, sharing her need for him to be gone.
‘Let’s just have some pasta,’ she said, raising her eyebrows for Ahmed’s approval. ‘I can’t face choosing.’ She smiled up at the waiter. ‘Can we go with whichever pasta you recommend? Your choice!’ That went down well. He looked delighted and hurried away.
He was back quickly with the water and a basket of bread, then they were alone.
‘You’ve made a friend there,’ Ahmed said, ‘as always. You made his day.’
It was a curiously awkward moment, sitting opposite him, feeling the strangeness and tension that was all-enveloping, yet completely at one with him as well. There was a sense of timelessness and compatibility as well as the physical pull, but they didn’t belong any more, as she’d always felt they had done; she had to remember that. She sat stiffly upright, eyeing him fixedly across the small table. She was in a slew of needs and feelings, thick as honey.
‘You haven’t changed,’ she said, fingering her wedding ring, her words floating off and fading like smoke rings, disappearing like the last seven years. ‘Except . . .’ He stared at her quizzically, his eyes amused. ‘You look smartened up, better turned-out.’ She gave a small grin. He was in a light blue, faint-stripe shirt, and had hung a good-looking charcoal linen jacket over the chair-back.
He was holding her eyes and kept on staring. It was hard, sitting opposite at the small square table, trying to keep their knees from touching. Ahmed reached over. holding out his hand, open-palmed. ‘Give me yours,’ he said. She uncurled the small clenched fist in her lap and rested her hand on his. ‘You broke my heart when you got married,’ he said, parcelling up her fingers.
Nattie said nothing. She was close to drowning, thinking about her own heart being broken. This was no good; she had to stay afloat. ‘What about you?’ she said finally, her voice squeaky with emotion, dreading his reply. ‘Are you married?’
‘No.’
She couldn’t take away her hand; she wanted more of its transmitted warmth, the feel of his thumb gently massaging. She should leave now, go home, back to the office, anywhere, stopping in some dark alley to cry a river of tears.
‘I haven’t got two children either, no Thomas who’s fifteen months, no Lily who’s nearly five.’ She couldn’t hide her surprise and he smiled. ‘I was a reporter once, remember?’ She’d forgotten how much of his smile was in the eyes, never broad and hearty, always genuine and warm. ‘I was actually a fully-fledged journalist for a time, while I was still on the New York foreign desk.’
‘What are you now?’
‘In love with you.’
‘Shut up,’ she said, snapping, pulling away her hand. ‘You cut off all contact with no thought for the pain it would cause – what kind of love is that? Not a word to William who’d supported you all down the line, seen you right with a good job in the New York office. No thought for the gap you left to be filled; think of the guys on the paper spending valuable hours trying to find you when you went missing. And do you really have any idea of how it was for me? Sick with worry, having visions of you dead, kidnapped, being tortured, knocked about in some unspeakable hellhole. You’ve got some explaining to do,’ she muttered, blinking away hot tears.
The waiter arrived with two oval plates piled mountainously high with some creamy, glutinous-looking mush and a salad that would have fed six. ‘Seafood pasta,’ he said. ‘ ’S’nice.’ It smelled of a freezer cabinet and floury white sauce.
‘Shades of Fawlty Towers?’ Ahmed muttered.
‘I will tell you everything,’ he said, when the waiter had gone, ‘but it’s a long saga and painfully difficult to explain. And you’re going to say you’ve got to go any minute, when you’ve eaten two mouthfuls of your friend’s seafood special. And anyway you’ve got plenty of explaining to do yourself. You think you had a monopoly on living through agonies of pain? What about the question I’ve had in my head night and day: why? Why did you have to marry him? I couldn’t believe you’d done it. Seeing that wedding picture in the newspaper, I was a wreck, unable to cope. I’d trusted in you, Nattie. I’d been convinced you’d hang on and keep the faith you had in me.
‘Why did you have to marry him?’ he repeated. ‘Why couldn’t you have had the baby and stayed living together? Think of the numbers of people who do. It was only a year after we’d been out of contact, for God’s sake. But you had to go and get married. Don’t you see how impossible it was for me to get back in touch after that – once I’d seen that photograph? You in a white wedding dress – you think I was going to send a message and say, “Hi! It’s me – congratulations! Oh, and by the by, I actually happened to have loved you for life. But I hope you’ll be gloriously happy and have lots of children, dogs, cats and summer holidays.” ’
‘No dogs and cats, only a guinea pig. Lily has a guinea pig called Moppet.’
Nattie’s tears were flowing more freely. Wiping her eyes, she saw that Ahmed’s head was turned; he was emotionally wound up too. It made her feel glad, moved that he should feel strongly enough for an outburst, while burning up with the unfairness of such a monstrously one-sided attack. She was conscious of the dangerous potency; they were talking and fighting as if they’d never been apart.
He’d given no explanation, not a word; the opposite, in fact, since everything that had happened – certainly in her eyes, from her perspective – had stemmed from the moment he’d cut off all communication and vanished. He had a lot to answer for. A year of silence, nothingness, not a word; was it any wonder that her loyalty had wavered? If she hadn’t found herself pregnant . . . The shock, the realisation of what that had meant, responsibility, the bond with Hugo who was a good, decent man. It was a marriage born of genuine affection, not from her sad sense of defeat when thirteen months on with no word, no sighting, despair had set in.
Her anger spilled over. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something? You’d disappeared off the face of the earth, remember? Left everyone high and dry. Let me down, sure, but others too – William, your colleagues – and you talk about believing in people? I’d been faithful, “loyal”, pure as a nun all the while we were in contact, and for months afterwards, living in hope, however wretchedly bleak the chance that all was well. Blindly believing in you . . . I’d been helping Hugo, as you’d suggested, and he’d come through. He’d managed to lick his demons with all that took. I’d given him something to live for. And still no word from you.
‘So I got drunk one night and went to bed with him. I’d kept taking the pill on and off when I remembered and was pretty certain I had done that night. But a month later I was pregnant. So what do I do? You’re nowhere, a ghost. And what about Hugo? It was his child. I’d spent most of my time hiding my tears from him, as I’ve gone on doing over the years. Marrying was an impulsive decision, yes, but I had Hugo to think about too.
‘And don’t tell me you’ve been nowhere near a woman in all this time.’ Ahmed started smiling, which made her feel completely incensed, almost about to hurl something at him. ‘I’m glad you think it’s funny,’ she said, through clenched teeth, sticking out her jaw. ‘I don’t.’
‘I can’t help it; it’s you. I was terrified you’d have become someone else, cooler and more sophisticated, just as beautiful obviously, but more worldly and closed off. You’ve grown into your loveliness, Nattie, like a true swan; you’re still the soft, fantastic, unique woman I fell in love with and was absolutely determined to marry one day. As I still am.’
With those four words hanging loose, giving off vapours like a genie out of the bottle, he leaned forward on his elbows and buried his head in his hands. He was as aware as she was of the enormity of those words. But he hadn’t said them challengingly, more as if there was a humility underlying his declared intention. He wasn’t a selfish man and Nattie wondered if he’d been thinking of Hugo in all this. There were three people’s feelings to consider.
Ahmed lifted up his head. ‘You’ve got just as much fight, all the same instincts; you’re everything I’ve always loved – it’s like we’ve never been out of touch.’
‘But that’s just it!’ she exclaimed, in an agony of frustration. ‘We have been – for seven years. All that time I’ve thought you dead or married. You owe it to me to tell me every single bit of what happened. You’ve been asking why. Well, I have to know why too, why you vanished and not a word. Don’t you see?’
She was quivering, feeling in desperate need of physical contact. She fought it, turned her knees sideways, picked up her fork and gripped the table edge with her other hand. She wanted him to prise away her fingers and bite on them lightly as he used to. It was all she could do not to reach out to him.
He was distant for a moment and she was too, thinking about him, loving his eyes, dark chestnut with infinite depth, his hair, straight and black with a shank of it falling forward. It was tidy and well cut and from his clothes, all outward signs, Ahmed was far from the penniless reporter of seven years ago, always desperate to have his expenses paid on time. Yet he’d made it onto the Post, no mean achievement. William had seen his star quality, and it was through the paper that she and Ahmed had met. She’d gone to a party to celebrate William’s ten years as editor. People were seeds blowing in the wind, settling where they could, and she clung to the wonder of everything turning on chance.
Ahmed had outgrown Harehills, that small inward-looking community in a corner of Leeds, and blossomed. He had ability and knew it; there was no false modesty on his part, but no cockiness either, he didn’t strut about. The love she felt clawed at her heart, which was pounding so fast and loudly she wanted to cry out.
She had a sense of his pain too. Not just for the wretched situation they were in, but for his lack of freedom; not even able to see his own family – not in that tight-closed community where people wanted him dead. She could only imagine his heartache and sense of deprivation, how lonely he must have felt, cut off from the unfettered love of family, his life in London, his close friends. His need for contact must have intensified over the years.
Nattie wondered if he’d find a way to see his father – secretly in London, perhaps. She’d met him once, a small bald man with bright wary eyes, and seen at first hand the fierce love, pride and affection that flowed between father and son. It had been just before Ahmed left for New York and she’d sensed his father holding her to blame in some way for his son putting his life on the line. But those wary eyes had softened and she’d felt his father warming to her, despite all. It had given her hope for a future that wasn’t to be.
Ahmed was looking at her again, back from his thoughts.
‘Well?’ she demanded, still feeling miserably thwarted and forestalled. ‘You owe me a whole continent of explanations. You owe me and I have to know.’
‘Of course. I’ll tell you everything, but it will take time and it will be a struggle for me. It’s not for now. The food’s getting cold too – you should eat something or you’ll hurt your new friend’s feelings. And any minute now you’re going to look at your watch and cut me off, say you have to go.’
Did her panic about having to leave show that much? Her feelings were seeping out fast. It was nearly two; would take half an hour to get back to the office – she had a meeting at three . . .
A restaurant nearer the office would have allowed more time, but there was always the risk of being seen by colleagues. Word got around and she worried about Ahmed’s safety. Hugo too, was often in her part of the world, lunching with journalists; nothing could cause him more pain than if he happened to see her or if anyone else did, for that matter, and it got back. Bella Cucina had felt the safest bet.
‘Telling you is going to be impossibly difficult,’ Ahmed repeated. ‘And I have to hold out a bit, don’t you see? You’ve made it clear enough that you feel our meeting again like this is a bad, dangerous idea and would have to be kept secret from Hugo. You’ve deleted every single message from the past. I see our account too.’
‘So this holding out is by way of a bribe? To get me to agree to see you again?’
‘Call it what you like, it’s my only hope. You have to, Nattie. You know that. I had to wait this long before coming to London – any sooner would have been an even more irresponsible risk and the authorities wouldn’t have been pleased. They wouldn’t be now if they knew. I had to think of that, but I’d reached a point, however guilty I feel about Hugo, which I certainly do, where I couldn’t last another day. Maybe it’s wrong and selfish of me and I should have stayed away, but we belong, Nattie, you and me. Our lives were passing us by and my need of you was desperate.’
He smiled. ‘We’d better eat something. Race you through the seafood special!’
‘No contest, you’d win.’
‘I’m going to.’
She looked down.
‘Tomorrow?’ he said, leaning across to lift up her chin. ‘Thursday? Anywhere, any time, any place. You say.’
‘I’m working from home tomorrow, looking after Tubsy – Thomas. And I’ve got lunch with Mum on Thursday. It would be hard to put her off without an inquisition, which is not what I want right now.’
‘After work on Thursday then if you can’t do lunch?’ he asked. She nodded cautiously. ‘How are your mother and William? Does your mother miss politics?’
‘Not in the slightest. She says she’s glad to have got out when she did. They’re both fine, in fighting form. You haven’t been in touch with William then?’ Nattie looked at him nervously.
‘How could I, before seeing you? Jake’s about the only person who knows I’m here. I got in touch with him before coming. Have you kept up with him?’
‘Of course! You know how keen I was on him; I always said if I’d met him first you’d never have had a look in. He’s doing great,’ Nattie said, ‘exams behind him, an architect who’s going to go far. I’ve seen him with Hugo, we’ve been to his place for supper – his house is very state of the art. But he’s been so busy and as I expect you know if you’ve been in touch, he’s just left for Australia. He emailed saying how sorry he was not to say goodbye. It was quite a shock. I still haven’t told Hugo. I’d love to have seen Jake before he left,’ she said, sounding wistful. ‘I’ve missed him in my life, but to be honest I’m not that gone on his wife.’
‘I haven’t met her obviously. But she must have something going for her. Thursday then. Can you get away by half four? Meet by the Millennium Bridge, Tate Modern side?’
Nattie’s thin words of resistance were never said; she was still hesitating when the waiter reappeared. ‘You no like? No good?’ He stared at their little-touched plates with soulful eyes. ‘You like some tiramisu? Very nice,’ he said doubtfully.
‘Nothing more, thanks. Delicious pasta! Sorry, we just weren’t very hungry.’
‘Two double espressos and the bill, please,’ Ahmed said, less disingenuously.
The waiter cleared their plates and left with an audible sigh.
Ahmed paid the bill with a shiny American Express card and left a large tip. He walked with her to Baker Street Station, close enough for his arm and the back of his hand to brush against hers, but no hand–holding. Nattie was grateful. Walking in the street left her feeling very exposed.
He looked sideways at her. ‘You’re chewing on your lip.’ That was too intimate and Nattie looked away. ‘What about my lip?’ he used to say. ‘I want your bite.’
She couldn’t respond, the effort of keeping control was more than she could handle. She wanted to be wrapped in his arms, feeling the contours of him; the longing was infinite pain.
He came with her on the tube, sitting close. They walked together down deserted back streets, south of the Thames; then they were in the vicinity of her office, which felt dangerous. Both of them were keeping their eyes skinned, but there wasn’t a soul about.
‘Your scent is just how I remember,’ Ahmed said. ‘I’ve hung on to the memory for years. It’s you, Nattie, everything about you is the same, my Nattie . . .’
She was Hugo’s, though – and Lily’s and Tubsy’s. She couldn’t be his.
‘I should carry on alone from here,’ she said.
‘You’ll look in Drafts?’
‘Why, what for? In case you can’t make it on Thursday – either of us can’t?’
‘For love letters,’ he said. They were standing close. He traced over her lips and kissed them. It was a sweet, fleeting touch, featherlight, like a passing cloud-shadow that caused a small shiver, a breath of wind that presaged a coming storm.
Nattie turned away and rounded a corner. The Buckley Building and Girl Talk’s offices were right ahead.