I woke at 7am and immediately reached for my phone. There was a text from Jon. It had been sent just fifteen minutes after my own the previous evening and I was surprised at how quickly I must have fallen asleep. I read it three or four times, enjoying the increased sense of relief each re-reading brought.
Hi, it was great to get this. Had considered texting when I didn’t hear from you but you weren’t alone in your fear re possible responses. Really good news about your dad, I’m happy for him. And no, I’m not sure girlfriend is the right word either but I can’t immediately think of an alternative. Also interested in the baking and the phone calls. Are you saying there is some connection between the two? I’m around tomorrow. If I miss your call, I will call you back. Looking forward to a drink. And you’re right – it doesn’t matter if you don’t make sense, I’m used to it.
I smiled, put down my phone and headed for the shower, with a plan to then call Dad’s room and bully him into an earlier breakfast.
As it turned out, he was already up, dressed and perusing the Sunday papers by the time I called his room at just after eight o’clock. He too, as he subsequently explained to me over breakfast, had woken up early and invigorated, as had Hilary, to whom he had already spoken at length.
Heavy rain beat down upon the grey paving of the inner courtyard visible from our breakfast table, leading us to discount the idea of a further walk before leaving. And so, after a leisurely breakfast, which was marked by levels of laughter and relaxation considerably higher than the day before, we gathered our things, checked-out and made our way back to Bristol.
Our conversation on the way home focused more on the weeks to come, than the weekend just gone, with Dad clearly revelling in his new-found freedom to talk about Hilary and what they would be up to. Not that they had any plans to cruise the Med, dine out in Paris or punt along a Venetian canal. But they had scheduled a day trip to Bradford-on-Avon, a pub supper, an evening at the theatre and, of course, lots of baking.
On arrival in Redland, he stopped just long enough for a cup of tea and a piece of cake, before heading home to Chippenham. Hilary was due back late afternoon and he explained that he wanted to have completed another batch of Chelsea buns for her consideration by the time she arrived. I suggested it might be prudent to have a sneaky packet from Tesco’s to hand, in the unlikely event that his own were a total and utter inedible disaster, in response to which he laughed loudly and ruffled my hair.
I waved him off just after one o’clock, deciding to unpack, load the washing machine and tidy up a little, before sitting down to call Jon. That was something which, despite our recent uplifting exchange of texts, I still felt rather nervous about.
When I found myself plumping the pillows in the spare bedroom, I realised that I had reached the point of disgraceful procrastination and must now simply make the call.
I went and sat at the kitchen table, took my phone from my pocket and dialled, experiencing a mixture of disappointment and relief when, after half a dozen rings, Jon’s mobile went to voicemail. I cleared my throat, whilst he asked me to leave a message.
‘Hi Jon, it’s Alice. I’m back from the Cotswolds and around now until five-ish. I was just calling to arrange going out after work one evening. I’m free this week, any evening except Friday, I think – I’m that popular. So just let me know. OK, well, bye.’ I hung up, suddenly feeling oddly flat and at a loss as to how to pass the time until Stephen arrived.
I had just decided to go and tackle some long overdue weeding, when the sound of a bugle heralded the arrival of a text. It was from Jon.
In Waitrose. Nearly done. Just give me half an hour.
I looked at my watch; he would be calling about two. Or did he mean I should call him at two? Either way, I had half an hour. I went outside, fetched a trowel and small fork from the shed and began to attack the borders.
At 1.55pm, frustrated by the ongoing, low-level anxiety which I was still undeniably experiencing, I came inside with the intention of washing my hands, putting on the kettle and calling Jon for a second time. I had just begun the process by turning on the tap, when the doorbell rang, causing me to start slightly. I gave my hands an inadequate rinse, drying them on my jeans and turning to look at the kitchen clock; it was a minute off 2pm. I took out my phone and checked Jon’s text. It hadn’t occurred to me that he might mean he would be coming round in half an hour but I supposed it could be him. I sighed in dismay at my blackened nails, damp, mud-covered jeans and make-up free complexion, before taking a deep breath and walking from the kitchen towards the front door. It would probably, I reasoned, just be Sim, the sports-mad eleven year-old from next door, wanting one of her tennis/foot/cricket balls back.
But it wasn’t Sim.
I opened the door to a man, visible only from the shoulders down, his face hidden behind a large cream and peach bouquet of roses, germinis and lilies. I gasped, surprised but delighted by the gesture. I guessed that it was Jon, even before I noticed the Waitrose care label, as he extended the huge bouquet towards me.
Instead of taking the flowers from him, I pushed his arm gently to one side, making his face visible and his neck accessible; I then experienced last-minute shock and hesitation, as I flung my arms around him.
‘Well, that certainly wins welcome-of-the-week,’ said Stephen, laughing.
‘It’s you,’ I gasped, clinging to him and feeling as if I would crumple and collapse without his support.
He laughed. ‘Well spotted.’
‘I thought… I just wasn’t expecting you… so early,’ I said, my voice muffled, my head buried in his shoulder.
‘Ah well, there you go. I’m full of surprises.’
I eased myself away from him and looked up into his eyes. ‘Stephen, you know, I don’t think—’ I began, in unpremeditated fashion, before being suddenly interrupted by Sophie’s ringtone, commanding me to answer the phone and, it seemed, to pull myself together. Stephen smiled.
‘I’ve really got to change this one – and soon,’ I said to him, extracting my phone from my pocket and beckoning him to come inside and follow me through to the kitchen. I looked at the screen. It was, of course, Jon. ‘I just have to take this call.’ I made an apologetic face. ‘I’ll be two seconds.’ Stephen nodded and sat down at the kitchen table. I answered the phone. ‘Hello.’
‘Hello, Alice.’
‘Hello,’ I repeated, wishing I didn’t have an audience.
Jon laughed. ‘Well, I would say hello again, but I think I should probably try to move the conversation on a little.
‘Yes,’ I said.
There was a pause. ‘Is everything OK?’ he asked. ‘Is this not a good time to call?’
‘No, no, it’s fine,’ I said. ‘Stephen’s just arrived, though, so I just don’t want to be rude by chatting for too long.’ Stephen smiled and waved a hand at me to indicate that I shouldn’t worry.
‘Oh, I see,’ said Jon. ‘I was just wondering if we could arrange a—’
‘Yes, tomorrow,’ I said, quickly turning my back on Stephen and flicking the switch on the kettle.
‘Er…’ Jon sounded surprised or hesitant, I couldn’t tell which.
‘Or not,’ I continued hastily. ‘I don’t mind.’
He laughed again. ‘No, no,’ he said, ‘tomorrow’s great.’
‘Brill,’ I said.
‘You sound… busy,’ he said. ‘Let’s sort out the details by text.’
‘Yes.’
‘OK.’ There was a second pause. ‘Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, then, Alice. Bye.’
‘Bye.’
I hung up the phone and, feeling slightly flustered, kept my back to Stephen whilst opening one of the wall cupboards.
‘Sorry about that,’ I said. ‘Tea or coffee?’
He didn’t reply, instead I felt his arms slip around my waist as he kissed my neck. ‘I was rather hoping you might add “or me” to that list of possibilities,’ he said, gently turning me round.
‘Hmm…’ I said, kissing him lightly on the lips and then holding up my grubby hands and gesturing towards my muddy attire. ‘I think it might be an idea to save me for later.’
He looked down at me, smiled and then kissed my forehead. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ he said. ‘We have lots of time and besides,’ he added, gesturing towards the flowers on the table, ‘they could do with a vase and I,’ he kissed me again, this time on the cheek, ‘could murder a coffee.’
Five hours, one walk through Leigh Woods and a considerable amount of grooming later, and we were sitting in the tiny Cotham restaurant which was one of my favourite places to eat. I had mentioned it, fleetingly, a week earlier, and Stephen had noted it down and made the booking. It was the kind of thoughtful gesture which I knew I should value.
‘Here’s to moving on,’ he said, toasting me with a glass of the Pinot Grigio the waiter had just deposited on our table.
‘So, you’ve sold, then?’ I asked, clinking my glass against his.
‘Well, I’m as confident as you ever can be about these things.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘Something could still go wrong but there are only three of us in the chain, which is good.’
I nodded. ‘And apart from the sale, how is everything else in Solihull?’
‘There’s nothing except the sale in Solihull,’ he said, sipping his wine.
‘There must be some things about it you’ll miss,’ I said, slightly taken aback. ‘No happy memories? No nostalgia?’
‘Oh, of course,’ he replied with a grin. ‘I was just being flippant. There are lots of happy memories. But they are the past. And I can enjoy them while looking forward to new challenges and experiences,’ he took my hand, ‘and relationships.’
I shook my head. ‘You always make change sound like such an exciting thing. It doesn’t frighten you at all, does it?’
He squeezed my hand. ‘Why should it?’ he asked. ‘You know, I think you assume that any change is going to be a sudden jolt to your existence. But it doesn’t have to be like that, especially if it’s a change of choice.’ He paused, let go of my hand and picked up his drink. ‘It’s all about managing the transition; making it as smooth as possible, and leaving yourself as little opportunity as possible for looking back over your shoulder.’ He looked at me and grinned. ‘I know, I know. I’m getting heavy again. So let’s just say that I have a few loose ends to tie-up and that I’m very ready to go. And, of course, I’m looking forward to being able to see you more,’ he said. ‘A lot more.’
‘Yes,’ I smiled, envying him his clear-sighted determination. He came, he saw, he conquered, and all in the most delightful, affably charming way imaginable.
‘But anyway,’ he continued, ‘enough about me. You haven’t told me much about the Cotswolds.’
‘Oh, well,’ I said, ‘Hilary was, of course, the big news.’
‘She sounds great.’
‘She is,’ I agreed. ‘Dad is so happy at the moment. It’s lovely to see.’
‘No other weekend news of note, then?’
‘No, not really, other than those phone calls.’
He replaced his glass on the table and looked puzzled. ‘What phone calls?’
‘I thought I’d told you,’ I said frowning. ‘I’ve had some weird phone calls; silent ones.’
He shook his head. ‘You haven’t mentioned them. That doesn’t sound good. Have you blocked the number?’
‘There was no number to block. But don’t worry,’ I attempted a reassuring smile, ‘it’s probably just an automated call.’
‘But that’s not what you think?’ he asked.
‘Well…’ I hesitated, ‘I thought I could hear someone on the line in a couple of the calls. But there haven’t been many and I haven’t had one today.’ I reached into my bag and took out my phone. ‘Ooh no, actually, I have. Look.’ I turned the screen towards him to show him the notification of a call received since arriving at the restaurant. ‘Let’s listen.’
‘OK,’ he said.
I positioned the phone on the table between us, put it on hands-free and played the voicemail. There was no message; however, this time I heard a soft, but very definite, sigh.
‘There! Did you hear that?’ I asked. ‘I wonder if it’s a child.’
He shook his head. ‘I didn’t hear anything. You’re probably right about being on someone’s marketing list.’
‘You didn’t hear a sigh?’ I asked, feeling disappointed. ‘Why don’t we listen again?’
He picked up the phone and handed it to me. ‘I don’t want you worrying about this,’ he said. ‘I’m going to call a friend of mine who works for EE and see if there’s a way of blocking calls from unknown numbers. I’m sure there is. Let’s look to the solution, rather than dwelling on the problem. And, in the meantime,’ he picked up his menu and grinned boyishly, ‘let’s order.’
‘Good idea,’ I said, smiling and replacing my phone in my bag. ‘I’m starving.’
Dinner was delicious, if, in my case, a little alcohol-heavy. Stephen stopped drinking after just half a glass of wine, saying he had drunk quite a lot the previous evening. But he encouraged me to keep going. I managed a couple of glasses but then refused any more. ‘I’ll never get up tomorrow,’ I protested, when he tried to top up my glass as we waited for the bill. ‘Let’s just head home.’
‘Ah, well, about that…’ he said, lowering his head slightly and looking up at me guiltily. ‘Sorry, Alice. I have a confession to make.’
‘Hmm?’ I offered him a slightly tipsy smile and touched his nose with my forefinger. ‘What,’ I said, tapping his nose lightly with each word, ‘is… it? What… have… you… done?’
He took hold of my hand and kissed it. ‘Well, I haven’t been entirely honest with you about today.’
‘No?’
‘No,’ he said, kissing my hand for a second time. ‘As you know, I was originally coming to Bristol this evening because I had a meeting here tomorrow. But that was cancelled on Friday and I now have a meeting in Leicester tomorrow. And it’s an 8am start. So…’
I understood. ‘So you’re heading back this evening.’
He nodded. ‘And I’m sorry. I would have told you yesterday but I wanted to see you so much and I was afraid you might tell me not to make the journey. And, as I say, I wanted to see you.’ He reached across the table, touched my cheek and smiled. ‘Actually, it felt like more like a need than a want,’ he said softly.
I smiled at his thoughtful concealment of the truth and at his willingness to undertake a lengthy round trip just to take me to dinner. And I was grateful to discover that three glasses of Pinot Grigio were enough to lessen any sense of disappointment I might otherwise have felt at his early departure. As it was, I found myself very much looking forward to the pleasant walk home, to the goodnight snog, and, best of all, to pulling my duvet up under my chin and going to sleep. I was, I realised, shattered.