Never Alone (19 page)

Sarah has been listening to Becca and Diana talk about village things for the past twenty minutes, while keeping an eye on George, who is doing his best to have one last go at Ian.

It’s not looking good. Ian has one of those tight smiles on his face that suggests everything has just become horrifically awkward. Sarah excuses herself and goes looking for Sophie, to warn her. In the kitchen she finds her with Aiden. They are standing quite close, holding a glass of wine each. Inexplicably, she is certain that she has just interrupted something.

In that moment George comes through from the living room, russet-faced. Sarah thinks – not for the first time – that he looks like a heart attack waiting to happen.

‘Fucking shitcunts,’ he says.

‘George! For fuck’s sake!’

He is, luckily, still sober enough to look behind him before he continues, ‘Now he fucking tells me he’s got nothing to do with the money. At all. End of.’

‘I told you,’ Sophie says.

The fact that Sophie clearly did tell him, and has turned out to be right, is like pouring petrol on George’s furnace. He puts his hands on the granite worktop and seethes.

Deep breaths
, Sarah thinks.
Come on, George
.

‘I fucking gave him the Margaux, too. Bastard.’

‘Oh, come on,’ Sophie says. She’s at least as drunk as he is, and that means placating him is going to take second place to winding him up even more.

‘I can do without your input, thank you.’

Sarah, embarrassed, looks across to Aiden, who is pretending to be serious. By the way he is looking from one to the other, he is loving this display: marital strife at its most amusing. Probably, she thinks, he doesn’t get to see this first hand. Or maybe he does. Maybe his clients invite him to dinner parties regularly, claiming he is a colleague or a client of theirs, not the other way round.
He’d like that
, she thinks.
He thinks he’s a good actor.

Having regrouped, a few moments later Sophie and George head back into the living room with brandy and glasses. They are all smiles.

Sarah goes to follow them, but Aiden catches her arm.

‘Wait,’ he says.

She turns, but does not raise her eyes to his. She thinks she knows what’s coming.

‘I know what you said, about us being friends.’

Here we are, then,
she thinks.
Here it comes. ‘Do you mind if I have a go at Sophie?’
At least he has the decency – such as it is – to ask her first.

He moves closer to her, close enough that she can feel the warmth radiating from his body, smell his scent. ‘I know what you said. I know you must have your reasons, and I respect them. But I wanted to tell you something. I’m not trying to change your mind. I just need to tell you.’

‘Tell me what?’ she asks, and now at last she looks up into those green eyes and fights with everything she can muster to keep her composure.

‘I love you,’ he says.

They are in the car, driving up the hill. Two hours have passed and Sarah has said nothing to him, nothing at all, short of a brief ‘thank you’ when he helped her into her coat. There was nothing she could think of to say. She has fantasised about him
saying those exact words many times over the years. She has imagined that scene taking place everywhere from an airport hotel to a beach to a windswept hillside, thought about what she would say and what he would do, and, most of the time, it would end in a kiss at the very least. She never once thought of him saying it in Sophie’s kitchen, much less that what she would feel about it when it finally, actually happened was nothing stronger than disappointment. After all these years, to be offered the thing you believed you wanted most in life and to find it is not what you thought it was. He is nothing but a shadow, a shade, a cardboard facsimile of the man she held in her heart.

More than ever she wishes Jim were still here, because, even with the debts, the lies, the way he clearly, she realised after he died, made huge life decisions without talking to her, at least he was
real
.

All she really wanted was to get blind drunk and pretend it hadn’t happened; but she couldn’t do that because she had to drive home. And so instead she chatted to and laughed with everyone but him, flitting from person to person, while Aiden sat in the corner, nursing a glass of George’s single malt, and watched.

When she parks the car in the barn he gets out first. He is already halfway to the cottage before she can call out to him – ‘Aiden!’ – but even that is half-hearted.

Let him go.

Sarah stands at the kitchen sink, holding on to it tightly as if the room is spinning. It isn’t; the house is quiet, the dogs are asleep, Basil is even snoring, but Sarah’s life is unravelling piece by piece and there is nothing left that’s solid.

Aiden’s car has gone and has not come back, not even overnight; she thinks, maybe, he might be looking for somewhere else to live. She wouldn’t blame him if he were.

Sophie called earlier to ask if she had happened to notice George’s car on the way out.

‘No,’ Sarah said in reply. ‘We were parked right down the bottom of the drive. Why?’

‘Some piece of shit keyed it,’ Sophie said. ‘George is beside himself.’

‘Keyed it? On the driveway?’

‘It’s not an accident. They’ve scratched the word “cunt” into the bonnet.’

‘What? Who the hell would do something like that?’

Sophie didn’t – couldn’t – answer, but there was an echoing, unspoken name hovering in the cold air between Sarah’s house and Sophie’s.

‘Want to come over?’ Sarah asked.

‘Not today,’ Sophie responded. ‘I’m busy trying to peel George off the ceiling. He’s still on the phone to the insurance people. He’s back in London tomorrow. Maybe we could do lunch on Tuesday? I’ll give you a call when things calm down.’

Now, Sarah is looking out over the yard and wondering if there’s any point going over to the workshop. She needs to work – she has to, especially now things are clearly ruined with Aiden and he is probably going to move out. Without the rent, she will undoubtedly have to sell the house, and fast. She will have to take whatever anybody offers her.

The thought of it makes her feel sick.

You are sitting drinking wine with Sophie McCormack in the conservatory of the Old Rectory at half-past twelve on a Monday. It feels very decadent.

‘How are you feeling?’ you ask.

‘Much better,’ she says. ‘I have to admit it’s been a stressful couple of days.’

‘George?’

‘Oh, he’s all right. He’s full of bollocks but he always comes round in the end.’

She told you about the Lexus being carved up on the phone, yesterday. You told her you hadn’t seen anything, of course. She told you about George’s fury at it; the car has now been driven away to the dealership in Leeds. She suspects Will is to blame.

‘Why would he do that?’ you ask.

She smiles and shakes her head, as if she has already made a mistake by mentioning his name. You want to tell her to be careful, but this is not the right moment to do it.

You need all the friends you can get.

‘How’s Sarah?’ Sophie asks, pouring another glass of wine. The bottle is almost empty. In the time it has taken you to drink one glass, she has drunk three.

‘You should call her,’ you say, which is your way of being discreet. Besides, you don’t want Sophie to know that somehow you’ve fucked things up with the woman you claim to love, all over again.

‘I said I’d take her for lunch tomorrow.’

‘You’ll probably see her before me, then. I keep missing her.’

‘You need to give her time,’ she says.

‘Maybe.’

She is doing her best to look happy, but something is troubling her. She is as beautiful and groomed as she always is, but under the smooth, ‘barely there’ make-up she is pale. In your experience, you cannot push someone like Sophie. The more you ask, the more she will retreat. What will work is to wait.

‘Did you tell her all about it? What you do, I mean?’

‘Eventually.’

‘It’s not as seedy as it sounds.’

‘It’s not seedy at all,’ you add, but of course that’s just your opinion.

‘Quite.’

‘You didn’t seem surprised, when I told you.’

She laughs. ‘Well, I was. But at least I know that such things exist.’

Ah, you think. Here we go. Sarah said as much.

‘You’ve seen a masseur,’ you say, as if you didn’t know already.

‘Once or twice.’

‘Any good?’

‘Fairly crap, if I’m honest. The idea of it was much better than the real thing.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. There are quite a few guys doing it now.’

Sophie finishes her wine, looks at the bottle and knits her brows, as if she hadn’t realised it contained so little. You can tell she wants to go and get another one, but it’s broad daylight outside – although the clouds are dark grey, scudding overhead – and even Sophie has her principles.

‘I can imagine you’d be better. You strike me as a… professional. Someone who takes it seriously.’

‘I do,’ you say. ‘I take pride in my work.’

‘Making women come,’ she says.

‘Making women aware of themselves, how incredible they are.’

She laughs. ‘You’re a charmer.’

‘I’m not saying it to be charming. It’s the truth. I watch my clients – how they are – and I honestly think, if women had any idea of the power inside them the world would be a completely different place.’

She doesn’t smile at that. That look is back, whatever it is: watchful, thoughtful.

‘If you had any idea,’ you say, ‘for instance.’

‘I don’t feel powerful,’ she says. ‘I feel…’

‘What?’

Here we go, you think.

She reaches out a hand to him. ‘I feel foolish,’ she says, ‘and old. And sometimes a little bit terrified.’

On Monday evening, just as Sarah is thinking about going to bed, Kitty phones. Sarah knows instantly that something is not right. Kitty is too quiet, bunged up – she’s either caught a cold or she’s been crying. Kitty never gets colds.

‘What’s the matter? What’s happened?’

‘I’m okay,’ she says. ‘Can I come home for a bit? I’ve only got one lecture next week, the tutorial got cancelled, so I wouldn’t miss anything.’

‘Kitty, of course you can come home. You know that. But why, what’s up?’

Kitty launches into breathless sobs and Sarah catches the odd word – Oscar, of course. Eventually it all comes pouring out, Oscar being distant, telling her he needs space, seeing someone else.

‘Oh, Kitty, my poor darling,’ Sarah says. ‘Are you on your own? What about tonight, will you be okay?’

‘Kul’s taking care of me,’ Kitty sniffs. ‘She said I can go round to theirs.’

‘Good. When are you coming home?’

‘Wednesday. I’ll text you when I know what train I’m getting,’ Kitty says. ‘Thanks, Mum.’

Later, lying in bed waiting for sleep, Sarah thinks about getting in the car and driving through the night to go and get Kitty and bring her home. She cannot do this; Kitty is an adult. She has to keep reminding herself. Outside, the wind howls and now it’s started to rain again. The temperature has
hovered just above freezing and it feels more likely that there is snow on the way. Sarah listens to the wind, and prays to whoever might be listening that the snow will hold off until Kitty’s train gets in the day after tomorrow.

The next morning Sarah walks the dogs early. It’s still barely light; the wind is cold and bitter and an icy sleet is falling intermittently, blown around by the swirling wind. At the top of the hill the sleet becomes more defined, and the valley is shrouded in white cloud. The snowfall is brief; by the time she is back at the house, the dogs ahead of her, it has stopped again. Ahead the sky is a dirty yellow-grey; more snow is coming.

Back in the house, she tries to call Sophie to ask about meeting for lunch; but she isn’t answering and her voicemail, unusually, fails to kick in.

Then she tries to call Kitty, leaving a message, and then Louis. There’s no point in leaving a message for him; she doesn’t know what to say, in any case.

An hour later, Kitty calls back. She sounds brighter than she did last night, but not by much. She is going to go straight to the station tomorrow after her last lecture.

‘How are you feeling today?’ Sarah asks.

‘I’m worried about him, Mum,’ Kitty answers.

Sarah hadn’t asked how Oscar was, but that was what Kitty heard. Typical of her daughter, to be thinking of someone else even when she’s hurting.

‘He’s just gone very quiet. He’s really sensitive, you know? He really feels things. I’m worried that he’s working too hard; he’s trying so hard to please his dad and it’s not doing him any good, honestly.’

‘Oh, Kitty, I’m sure he’ll be fine. Just because you can breeze through work, you have to realise other people work at a different pace…’

‘I know that! He’s been quiet ever since we got back from seeing you. I think it’s the whole family thing, you know – he really feels it with his family fractured the way it is. Same as with Will. How is he, by the way?’

‘I don’t know,’ Sarah says. She has not thought about Will for days.

‘I was quite worried about him. He looked so thin, and pale, didn’t he? It was nice of you to let him come out with us. Where’s he staying? I wondered if he might have been sleeping rough.’

‘He was house-sitting for someone the weekend before last. He’s probably found somewhere else by now. Don’t worry, I think he’s good at taking care of himself. He’s managed up to now, hasn’t he?’

‘I suppose. He looked troubled. You must admit he looked like he had something going on, Mum.’

‘I think, maybe, he’s been having some relationship problems…’

‘Relationship problems! I didn’t know he was in a relationship. Who with?’

‘I don’t know,’ Sarah fibs. ‘I don’t even know for sure it’s that. Just something I picked up on. I thought he looked a bit heartsick.’

‘God. I just can’t imagine him in a relationship, can you?’

‘He’s quite sweet,’ Sarah says.

‘Mum! You’re old enough to be his mother!’

‘Not quite,’ she answers indignantly. ‘Anyway, that’s not what I meant. I just meant his heart’s in the right place; he’s had a rough time of it. He deserves a bit of happiness. Don’t you think so?’

‘I do, yes, but Oscar didn’t like him.’

‘Really? I thought they got on okay.’

‘Yes, when you were watching. When you left the room it was quite awkward.’

‘Was it?’

‘He sat down next to me on the sofa, too, when there were the armchairs to sit on. Oscar sat the other side but he said that Will was trying it on. He said Will was flirting with me. I had to tell him that Will’s practically my brother, that’s just not something I would ever consider, but he didn’t get it. I told him Will was Louis’s friend, not mine, but that didn’t work either.’

‘Try not to worry about it,’ Sarah says. ‘Men are like that. Hormones worse than ours, although they won’t admit it.’

But now, even after she’s put the clean sheets on Kitty’s bed and made herself some soup, Sarah can’t get Kitty’s words out of her head. She thinks about Oscar, the silent, sullen young man who had hugged her and thanked her for letting him stay; about Will and his relationship with Sophie, which has somehow changed from a bit of fun, a fling, into something that has left both of them ragged; and about these two young men left to live in the space between broken families, finding their own way in life and having no positive role models to learn from. What hope was there for either of them?

In the early afternoon, Sarah tries Sophie again, this time the landline in case Sophie has lost her mobile. It’s happened before. After just a few rings George answers. His gruff voice is unmistakable.

‘Hi, George,’ Sarah says chirpily. ‘Is Sophie there? I’ve been trying her mobile but she’s not answering. She said she was coming over this afternoon and I wondered what time.’

There is a moment’s hesitation. ‘No, she’s not here.’

‘Oh. Any idea when she’ll be back?’

‘Not really, no.’

Sarah thinks for a second. There is something odd, guarded, about the way he’s speaking. Sarah has a sudden
horrible sense that Sophie is there, telling him to pretend that she isn’t.

‘George, I’m just a bit worried I might have upset her somehow. Can you ask her to call me?’

‘No, I can’t do that.’

‘Why not?’

‘She’s gone off for a few days’ break.’

It’s like a cold shower. ‘Oh? Like a spa break?’

‘Something like that, I expect. She’s probably turned her phone off. You know what these places are like.’

There’s something about the way he’s phrased it that sounds odd. ‘You expect? You mean you don’t know?’

‘She left a note,’ he says. ‘She said she’d be gone for a few days, and not to worry.’

‘You mean you don’t know where she is?’

There is a long pause.

‘George?’

‘When did you last see her?’ he asks.

‘At your party. But I spoke to her on Sunday.’

‘And she was okay?’

Sarah thinks of the best way to phrase it. She doesn’t want to bring up the subject of George’s car. ‘She was all right, I think…’

George doesn’t wait for her to finish. ‘No idea where she might be?’

‘No. I mean – I could ring round a few people?’

‘I’ve already done that,’ George says.

Sarah is used to him sounding impatient, even though he really isn’t. ‘Are you worried about her? I mean – if she left a note…’

‘She’s been under a lot of stress,’ he says.

George is the sort of man who doesn’t believe in stress. He uses the word in the same tone of voice that he might use to describe an evening of spiritual guidance, or meditation.

‘George, I’m sure she’s fine,’ Sarah says, although she’s not sure about that at all.

‘Do me a favour,’ he says. ‘If she calls you – will you let me know?’

‘Did you have a row? I mean – tell me to mind my own business, but –’

‘Mind your own business,’ he says. ‘I mean that in the nicest possible way.’

Sarah is stung. But he’s right – it’s nothing to do with her.

‘All right,’ she says. ‘If she calls me, I’ll ask her to phone home, how’s that?’

‘Thanks,’ he says, and rings off.

Immediately Sarah checks her own mobile phone. There is nothing; no message from Sophie.

After speaking to George Sarah tries calling Sophie again, but the calls go unanswered. Whether it’s the bad weather, the wind making the dogs restless, or Kitty, something has made her afraid for her friend. What if Sophie has been in an accident? What if she’s turned over the Audi in a ditch somewhere, drunk, driving too fast?

Sarah is tempted to go out in the Land Rover looking for her. She thinks of all the places Sophie might have gone, all the people she might be with. Most of them George will already have tried. She turns the phone over and over in her hand, looking at it, before reaching that decision.

And then she dials his number.

He answers after about the tenth ring, by which time Sarah was expecting voicemail.

‘Sarah,’ he says.

‘Hi, Will,’ she replies. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m good.’

Sarah is relieved to hear that, wherever he is, he is indoors. She cannot hear the wind howling, and he sounds relaxed, calm.

‘I just wondered – I know this is a bit out of the blue – I just wondered if you’ve seen Sophie.’

‘Sophie? No, I haven’t. Why, should I have?’

‘I spoke to George just now. She’s gone off somewhere – left him a note. He doesn’t know where she is.’

‘What?’

‘I thought he might have called you, but, you know, in case he didn’t I just thought it was worth a try. I think he’s worried.’

‘She’s not here,’ he says, although Sarah notices he doesn’t give any indication of where ‘here’ is.

‘Oh, well, that’s okay, then,’ she replies, keeping her voice light. She doesn’t want to spark off any sort of panic.

‘She didn’t tell you where she was going?’

There is something about the tone of his voice that Sarah doesn’t like. It’s jokey, a little bit challenging, as though he thinks it’s amusing that Sophie and Sarah aren’t as close as they let on. The emphasis is on the ‘you’.

‘No, I haven’t seen her for a few days.’
You knew that
, she thinks.

‘She’s probably gone off with one of her fancy men,’ he says.

‘Will, really. That’s a bit…’

‘A bit what? Near to the truth?’

Sarah doesn’t reply. She wonders if he’s been drinking, or taken something. This isn’t like him. He sounds wired.

‘Sorry,’ he says then. ‘You’re right. I just don’t know why you’re asking me.’

‘Look, I know you were seeing each other. You told me that yourself.’

‘Right,’ he says. ‘Only, turns out she’s not that bothered. She doesn’t want to be tied down to the likes of me. She thought it was a casual thing, she said. She thought it was just a bit of fun. Did she say that to you?’

‘I didn’t realise,’ Sarah lies.
A bit of fun
; that was almost exactly the phrase she herself had thought about Will and Sophie. She tries to change the subject. ‘So did you find somewhere to stay?’

‘I’ve got somewhere for now. Something else is coming up soon. Much nicer.’

‘Whereabouts?’

‘Not too far.’

‘That’s good,’ she says. ‘Sounds nice. How long for?’

‘A while.’

Why is he being so evasive? She wonders if she’s offended him somehow.

‘You on your own?’ he asks.

Sarah doesn’t answer, wondering what he means. He’s got somewhere to stay, so he isn’t looking for a bed for the night.

‘I’m fine,’ she replies, not answering his question.

‘Yep,’ he says. ‘Anyway, if there’s nothing else…’

‘No – it was just – you know, if you do see Sophie, ask her to call George? He’s very worried.’

‘Course I will,’ he says warmly, and that’s more like the Will she knows. ‘Bye, Sarah. I’ll see you very soon.’

And he rings off.

Outside, the wind howls and moans. And, for no apparent reason, Tess starts barking.

It takes her a long time to get to sleep that night. She leaves her mobile phone on the table next to the bed with the sound turned up, in case someone calls. Sophie. Or Kitty. Or even Louis.

She wakes up suddenly, from deep sleep to wide awake in a second, her heart thumping.

She does not move, listening.

The wind has dropped and the house is silent.

She wonders if Tess barked again, if that was what woke her, or if she was dreaming about something.

She can hear breathing, looks up and gasps.

Someone is sitting on her bed.