The hidden truth, p.6
The Hidden Truth, page 6
‘You can say that again.’ She smiled brightly in an attempt to dispel his sombre mood. ‘I’ve just folded mine in gold tissue and tied it firmly with a bow.’
‘Sensible plan,’ Bernard said, almost as if he envied her.
They left the restaurant, Sara feeling a quiet pleasure in the way the evening had gone – there had been laughter and good conversation, real moments of connection about a lot of things, including their marriages.
Stopping on the pavement, Sara said, ‘Mine’s this way,’ indicating to the right. Her Mini was parked around the corner.
‘I’m that way.’ Bernard pointed left. ‘I’ll walk you.’
Sara did not protest. They were close on the narrow pavement – she could feel his jacket brushing her bare arm and enjoyed his proximity. As they turned the corner, she slowed down. Three figures were lounging against her car: lads in their late teens, she assessed, beer cans in hand, drunkenly shoving each other and laughing raucously. ‘That’s my car,’ she said softly.
Bernard followed her gaze. She heard him take a deeper breath. ‘Stay here,’ he said, straightening his shoulders and advancing towards the group. Despite his advice, Sara followed him.
‘OK, lads,’ Bernard said politely, when he reached them. ‘Off the car, please.’
The tallest and loudest – clearly the ringleader – scowled, pressing his face close to Bernard’s, but did not shift from his seat on the bonnet of Sara’s car. ‘Yeah?’
In a second, the atmosphere changed. The other two crowded threateningly round Bernard, in solidarity with their leader. Sara stopped, held her breath. Don’t do anything stupid, she pleaded silently, knowing real violence could stem from just such an innocuous beginning. But to her astonishment, she heard Bernard laugh. He seemed genuinely amused. ‘What’s that you’re drinking?’ he asked.
Taken aback, the lad stared at him, then at his beer can, as if seeing it for the first time.
‘Me, I like a Bud,’ Bernard said.
The youths began shifting about, clearly nonplussed by the turn the encounter had taken.
‘Carling’s the best,’ one of the acolytes commented sulkily, waving his can – which was not Carling – in the air.
‘Haven’t had one in years,’ Bernard said. As he spoke, he firmly, but without any aggression, waved them aside. ‘Have a good evening, lads,’ he said, as they began silently sliding away from the car. For a moment, Sara thought they might kick off again – the leader’s expression as he eyed Bernard was still sullen and resentful. But after a moment, he turned and sloped off down the street, his two friends in tow. She heard them muttering, then a loud laugh.
‘Phew!’ she said, giving Bernard a grateful pat on his shoulder.
‘They didn’t mean any harm. Just too little to do and too much to drink.’
‘It could have turned nasty.’
He nodded. ‘I used to do a lot of judo. I hope I can still handle myself.’
She was impressed.
‘“Never waste your energy on things that don’t achieve your goal,” judo philosophy says. Being aggressive would have got me nowhere.’
Sara pressed her key fob to unlock the door. She looked up at Bernard. ‘That was such a lovely evening. Thank you … And thanks for rescuing me.’
He laughed. ‘You are so worth it, Sara. I’ve had a wonderful time.’
Will he kiss me? Will he suggest another date? The questions flashed across Sara’s mind.
But Bernard just pulled her into his arms and gave her a friendly hug. Then he stepped back.
‘We should maybe, I don’t know, do something again …’ he began, opening the door for her and seeing her inside. But he hesitated, seemingly undecided about how to go on. In the end, all he said was ‘Safe journey’, accompanied by a final wave. Then he turned towards the corner.
Sara started the engine. She would have liked to sit for a while in the quiet of the car and contemplate the evening. But she worried the teenagers might return. And she didn’t want Bernard driving past and seeing her still there: he might think something was wrong. By the time she got home, though, she’d begun to lose confidence in how he felt about her. He started to suggest another meeting, she thought. Then, for some reason, changed his mind.
9
Why the hell didn’t you make a proper plan to see her again, you numpty? Bernard berated himself, as he walked slowly back to his car, pausing in his stride and almost turning back to do so. The evening had gone so well – from his point of view, at least. Was she waiting for me to kiss her? The notion had definitely crossed his mind, but he’d lost his nerve, hugging her instead, like a friendly godfather after the yearly ice-cream treat.
He groaned quietly as he sat in the car, watching Sara’s blue Mini emerge at the corner and speed away westwards. I really like this woman, he thought, recalling the way her hair had flopped over her gorgeous hazel eyes at supper, how she’d flick it away with her fingers almost apologetically. How she’d cradled her glass as she listened to him banging on, as if she were genuinely interested. He loved her wit, and how easy it seemed to make her laugh.
Sighing, he realized he wanted to freeze the clock, to contain the supper, Sara, his feelings, in a padded box where nothing and no one could hurt them. It’s lucky I didn’t kiss her, he told himself, knowing, with someone as straightforward as Sara, it would be crossing a line, mean committing to more than he was ready for. He was beginning to regret following Joe’s advice.
‘You can’t avoid meaningful relationships forever,’ his friend had said, when urging him to contact Sara.
‘Why not? You do,’ had been Bernard’s retort. But he realized as he said it that in fact, unlike Joe, he yearned to be with someone, to share his life again. There just seemed one too many hurdles to get over before that was possible: the obvious one, of course, then the twins … Ilsa.
He checked his mobile again before starting the car. Just a short, noncommittal text from Adam in response to the three voicemails he’d left. It drove him nuts, that impersonal, automated ‘Please leave a message after the tone’ each time. Neither of his children seemed interested in actually talking to him, which really upset him. Adam used to call for the occasional chat, although recently even that had been reduced to a series of infrequent one-line texts. Carrie, never. How would he explain this to Sara, who talked about her two girls so easily, and obviously had such a close relationship with them both?
10
The following morning Sara made herself a cup of coffee and put a slice of wholemeal bread into the toaster. She pulled the Saturday newspaper towards her as she ate, but she couldn’t concentrate. Memories of the charming evening played through her mind, slightly marred by Bernard’s vague suggestion, in parting, that they ‘do something’, while not making a plan. Like in the car park of the tearoom, he’d seemed constrained by something that went against his better instincts. Because it was clear to her, unless Bernard was a truly brilliant actor, that he had enjoyed the supper as much as she.
Plus, she’d sent him a text before she went to bed, saying, Thanks again, Bernard. I had such a lovely time tonight. And so far – she accepted it was not yet nine – he hadn’t responded. She reminded herself that he had said, at the time, that he’d had a ‘wonderful’ evening. So, maybe he was just indecisive, not given to hasty commitments. After all, he’d walked away from her at the tearoom and phoned eventually. She shook herself, wanting to clear her head. Nobody mentioned how confusing dating can be, she thought.
Her phone signalled an incoming text.
Pop round for a coffee? Precious’s message suggested.
Precious and Sammi’s house – a ten-minute walk down a steep, cobbled cut-through off the high street – was, like many of the Lewes houses, on a slope. So, while the front of the house was on street level, what might have been a dingy basement was in fact a light, spacious kitchen at the back, the garden sloping down to the road below.
The kitchen smelt of baking, and Sara grinned as she saw Sammi carrying a wooden board of his legendary bollos to the long table that ran the length of the glass doors – now open onto the garden. The summer sunshine was bright, the breeze pleasantly cool as the three of them sat in a row, looking out over the little park below towards the nearby hills. Precious had made coffee and handed Sara a large stoneware cup, beautifully decorated with hand-painted floral motifs. She indicated the golden-brown rolls, the buttercream poking out where they had been split.
‘My favourite.’ Sara smiled her thanks as she helped herself, closing her eyes as she savoured the crunch, then the warm, pillowy sweetness on her tongue. ‘Heaven,’ she said to Sammi, who was watching her anxiously with his dark eyes, just to check his offering was up to scratch.
‘OK … So, last night?’ Precious enquired through a mouthful of bun.
Sara filled them in. ‘He did say we should get together again when we said goodbye, but it seemed a bit vague, not exactly wholehearted. And he hasn’t replied to my thank-you text.’ She felt suddenly upset. ‘We had such a great time.’
Precious frowned. ‘Hmm. What do you think, Sammi? Male perspective? Why is he dragging his feet?’
Her husband considered this. ‘The old-fashioned type, maybe? His age … Doesn’t want to rush into anything?’ Sammi had lived in England now for over thirty years, and although he spoke perfect English, his accent was still recognizably Spanish.
‘The man should at least have texted you by now,’ Precious commented, glancing at the kitchen clock, which read ten thirty. ‘That’s rude.’
Sara nodded. ‘He said this odd thing when I asked – having an uncool moment – why he didn’t ring sooner. Said he was worried he might let me down.’
‘Oh, my God!’ Precious threw her hands theatrically in the air. ‘Maybe instead of the mad wife in the attic he’s got a serious problem … Like he’s an addict or something? Drugs, gambling … sex?’
Sara laughed. ‘Thanks, Precious. Very reassuring to think I’m dating a junkie … Well, clearly not dating yet.’ Trying to remember, she said, ‘There was something a bit dark, or sad, about him sometimes.’ Then she pulled a face. ‘Think I prefer the mad-wife scenario.’
The three of them sat in silence, watching Precious’s black cat, Chinko, slink elegantly past and out into the garden, as if he were a model in a runway show.
‘Have you heard from your disgruntled client, by the way?’ Precious asked.
‘I rang him and left a message offering another appointment, but he didn’t pick up. Then I got this strange email saying, and I quote, “Thank you for your message. Please don’t contact me again. You will be hearing from me in due course.”’
‘Whoa, is that a bit threatening?’ Precious asked.
Sara sighed. ‘I know. I thought so, too. I’ve checked through my notes and I’ve played it totally by the book with him. But I wonder if he thinks I’ve put him in danger or something, made him ill by saying he needs to eat gluten prior to a test.’
‘He’s probably angry about something else and taking it out on you,’ Precious observed.
She nodded. ‘I hope he doesn’t get nasty, though, and report me to the HCPC … Or take to social media. Although he doesn’t seem the type to have a Twitter or Facebook account.’
‘I’m sure you haven’t done anything wrong, Sas.’
No one spoke for a moment, then Sara said, ‘Men, eh?’ rolling her eyes and silently including Bernard in the incomprehensibility of the species.
To which Sammi held up his hands, eyes wide with mock hurt. ‘Un momento, por favor!’ he said, making them all laugh.
Walking back up the steep hill towards home, Sara straightened her shoulders and took a long breath, letting it out slowly, enjoying the summer sunshine on her face. When her mobile buzzed with an incoming message, she automatically dragged it from her pocket, her thoughts still on Julian as she pondered how to respond to his cold email. But he’d specifically asked her not to contact him, so she had little choice, really, but to wait and see what transpired. She’d had one client, some years back – not long after Pete died – who had reported Sara to her regulatory body, the Health and Care Professions Council. The client had suffered from quite severe mental-health issues, and nothing had come of it. But it upset her a great deal at the time, and she didn’t want to have to go through the arduous procedure of proving that proper standards had been met, not again. With her mind elsewhere, she was almost surprised to see the text was from Bernard.
Sorry, Sara, just got your message. Stupidly left my phone in the restaurant last night. Had such a great evening too x
She’d stopped at the entrance to the cut-through. An anoraked man, clearly in a hurry, pushed past her and she stood to the side. Reading Bernard’s text again, her heart twitched slightly. She put her phone back into her pocket, and her steps were noticeably lighter as she climbed the rest of the hill to her front door.
11
Nightmare, Sara typed into the text box. Glad you got it back x.
Not, she conceded, the most scintillating of replies. On the verge of sending it, she wondered if she should suggest another meeting herself. Was it OK, in the modern world, for women to be bold and not wait for men to make all the running? Her confidence deserted her, though, and she left the text as it was. She wasn’t sure if she would hear from him again. But she was determined she wasn’t going to waste any more emotional energy hoping she would.
She spent the afternoon cutting back the burgeoning castor-oil plant in the far corner of the garden, then made some blueberry muffins to take round to Margaret and Heather on Sunday. It took a full hour to compose a conciliatory email to Julian, asking if he would at least speak to her, so she could allay any fears he might have, but she decided, on balance, not to send it yet.
Bernard didn’t respond to her text and by Saturday night she had reluctantly consigned him to the bin of experience. They were obviously just not on the same page.
Heather greeted Sara with a hug and a worried smile, pulling her into the kitchen. Her voice lowered, she said, ‘Margaret’s not been so well. She seems confused, been wheezing a bit.’ Sara frowned. ‘She doesn’t like the hot weather,’ Heather continued, ‘but it feels like more than that.’ She sighed. ‘And her ankles have been quite swollen for a few days now, before it got really warm.’
‘Do you think I should call Dr Withy?’
‘It might be good to get her checked out. She hasn’t seen anyone in a while, or had her medication reviewed. I’m worried it’s her heart again.’
‘I’ll give the surgery a call first thing.’
Heather looked relieved and smiled. ‘So, how’s things?’
‘Oh, you know,’ Sara said wearily. ‘Touch of the same old, same old.’
Heather smiled sympathetically. ‘Yup. The world keeps turning, nothing changes … and we aren’t getting any younger.’
Heather’s remark made her feel inexplicably tearful. She nodded and turned away, hurrying out of the kitchen and along the short corridor to the sitting room.
Immediately, she saw what Heather had been talking about. Margaret was fidgety, her breath definitely more wheezy than usual.
‘Did you bring him?’ she asked, as soon as Sara sat down on the sofa next to Margaret’s chair.
‘Who?’
The old lady waved a bony hand, a confused frown on her face. ‘He said he was coming today.’
Taking her mother-in-law’s hand, Sara asked gently, ‘Is it Pete you’re expecting, Margaret?’
She gave a tiny sigh and her face cleared as she peered at Sara, as if seeing her for the first time. ‘Hello, dear … how nice.’
The room was quiet and very warm, although the French windows were open. Heather served tea and the muffins Sara had baked, but the old lady only picked at hers.
‘Peggy had a bit of a wobble about Pete before we came to see you the other day,’ Sara said. ‘It’s hard for me to know what it’s like, losing her dad at her age, and in the way she did. I’m not sure how best to help.’
Margaret nodded slowly, raising an eyebrow. ‘Speaking of which – although I don’t even like putting your sad excuse for a father in the same sentence as dear Pete – have you heard from the man?’
Sara shook her head. ‘No, but I never do, not until the annual Thanksgiving invitation from Lois, which always arrives on September the first, on the dot.’
Her mother-in-law chuckled. ‘I know it wasn’t funny for you, dear, but Pete used to make me laugh so much about those ghastly Thanksgiving trips.’
‘Oh, God, yes. The rotten-egg smell of Frank’s homemade wine. Those yappy dogs weeing all over the carpet … and Lois’s marshmallow pumpkin pie – just a whiff of all that sugar made our teeth splinter.’ She grimaced. ‘Not forgetting the delights of Prestatyn in November. Me and Pete used to get quite hysterical in the car on the way home. The girls never really understood what we were laughing at.’
‘Why do you still bother?’ Margaret asked. ‘I’ve never met the fellow, but he sounds like a thoroughly bad lot to me.’
Sara wasn’t sure why. ‘I suppose I keep hoping he’ll come through for me in some way.’ She gave a wry grin. ‘You know, throw his arms around me and say how truly sorry he is for walking out of my life and not giving a toss about me or my family. Explain it was some life-threatening event over which he had no control.’
Margaret smiled sympathetically. ‘Well … perhaps don’t hold your breath on that one, dear.’
Sara squeezed her mother-in-law’s hand. ‘I’m lucky. I’ve got you, Margaret. You’ve loved me and looked after me so brilliantly. I don’t need Frank in my life.’
Her mother-in-law looked a little abashed at Sara’s words – they seldom expressed their feelings for each other. Nevertheless, she smiled her appreciation.
