The Other Us: the RONA winning perfect second chance romance to curl up with. Fiona HarperЧитать онлайн книгу.
bento box. I always do.
She joins the queue, leaving me to file in behind her. ‘It’ll be a right laugh. You’ll see …’
I’m really irritated that she’s acting as if I’ve already agreed, as if my role in life is just to trail around behind her and do whatever she wants. I realise that as much as I moan about having a husband who’s so laid-back he just ‘goes with the flow’ about everything, I’ve chosen a best friend who is the complete opposite and I don’t always like this end of the spectrum much either.
‘Come on, aren’t you even curious?’ she asks once we’ve found some seats. ‘You and Jude were quite a hot item at one time, if I remember rightly …’
The penny drops then. For some reason she really wants to go to this stupid reunion and she’s using Jude as leverage because she wants me to go with her.
Maybe it’s because my shoulder is still twanging from carrying that shower curtain round for an hour longer than I’d wanted but I find I don’t want to be nice, accommodating, doormat Maggie any more. ‘Not really …’ I say, feigning indifference just as well as Becca has been doing. ‘It’s ancient history and I honestly don’t care in the slightest what Jude Hansen is doing now.’
Becca eats her chicken katsu curry sulkily after that. Normally, I’d stay silent for a couple of minutes then start to chat to her, win her round, but today I stay quiet. Let her offer the olive branch for once.
I know this spells the end of our shopping trip. When we finish we throw our rubbish away and head outside, and when we pause to say our goodbyes before heading off to our respective cars, Becca looks sheepishly at me. ‘Sorry if I was being pushy … I just got a bit excited about the idea, that’s all.’ She looks hopefully at me. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to go?’
I shake my head.
‘You won’t even think about it?’
I laugh. Even when Becca is trying not to be so … Becca … she can’t help herself. ‘OK, OK, I’ll think about it.’ Usually, I employ this tactic to shut her up. I just say yes to whatever she’s pushing for to keep the peace then wriggle out of it later, but I discover as I drive home back to Swanham that I was telling the truth. I can’t think about anything else – anyone else – all afternoon.
The house is quiet when I get back. Too quiet. I’ve got used to Sophie being around during the day after her A levels had finished – leaving her lunch plate on the arm of the sofa, the chart songs drifting from her bedroom upstairs, her soft laughter as she watched something on YouTube with her headphones in – but now she’s off backpacking with her friends before uni. Well, when I say backpacking, I mean in the UK. They’re somewhere near Fort William, exploring the Highlands at the moment. I said no to haring all over Europe for two months. She’s only just turned eighteen.
I feel as if I’ve got too much time on my hands now she’s not here. I find myself wandering round the house, looking at the empty spaces, wondering what I should be doing next.
Maybe I should ask for extra hours at work? I have a part-time job in a soft furnishings shop on the High Street. I gave up my career as a graphic designer when Sophie was born. Too many all-nighters to meet deadlines and things like that. It was nice to be here when she got home from school most days, even when she was old enough to take care of herself, and Dan’s money as an English teacher isn’t bad. We might not have had as many foreign holidays as some, but we’ve never gone short.
But when I think of doing full days at the shop my spirit sinks. I like my job, I do. It’s comfortable, like a pair of shoes worn in just right, but up until now I’ve been telling myself it’s just something to keep the money coming in while Sophie needed me. I don’t want it to define me.
I realise I’ve wandered through the hall, into the lounge and I’m standing in front of the mantelpiece. I’m staring at a picture of Sophie taken at her school prom. She looks elegant and happy, her warm-brown hair blown back away from her face by a playful breeze.
My eyes glaze for a second then refocus, and when I do it’s not Sophie I’m looking at in the picture, but myself. How I once was. Full of hope and ambition, optimism and bravado. A sense of loss engulfs me, but whether it’s because of my empty nest or for something deeper and long-standing, I’m not sure.
I go and get my mobile out of my handbag and dial Sophie’s number, even though I suspect she’s halfway up a mountain or in a valley with no coverage.
Much to my surprise, she picks up. ‘Hey, mum! What’s up?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ I say. ‘Just wanted to see if you’re keeping warm and eating alright.’
Just wanted to hear your voice because I’m not sure how I’m going to survive the next three years without you.
I hide the catch in my breath and realise I should have bought flowers while I was out – white lilies. Beautiful, waxy lilies that would fill the empty spaces in this house with their pure, white scent.
Sophie, however, on the other end of the line, chuckles. ‘I’m in Scotland, Mum, not the wilds of Antarctica, and it’s summer! They’ve got shops and beds and restaurants, you know. I’m absolutely fine!’
‘I know,’ I say softly. A selfish part of me wishes she’d sound a little bit less carefree. Just a little.
‘Anyway, gotta go! Love you, Mum!’
‘Love you too,’ I say back, but the line has already gone dead by the time I reach the last syllable.
I stare at the phone then decide to tuck it into my back pocket rather than putting it back in my handbag. It’ll be like I’m carrying Sophie around with me. I look at the clock. It’s only two. Another four hours until Dan gets home and I can tell him about the call. That’s our main topic of conversation these days – Sophie and what she’s up to – an oasis in the barren landscape of our communication.
I wander into the kitchen, put the kettle on, then decide I don’t actually want a cup of tea. I see my laptop sitting on the kitchen table and I sit down and turn it on. On automatic I log into Facebook. I spend a lot of time on Facebook, keeping up with what other people are doing with their lives.
I pretend to myself I’m just tinkering around for a while, reading a few updates from my cousin, liking some pictures of friends who’ve been out on the town, but eventually I cave and search for the reunion page. I find it almost instantly. There are comments from people I know. I don’t ‘like’ or ‘join’ but I do read.
One post in particular catches my attention: Hot guys: where are they now? I read down the comment thread. There are the predictable mentions of the college sporting gods and star drama students, but halfway down, snuggled in between the rest, I spot something:
Claire Rutt:
Anyone remember Jude Hansen?
Sam Broughton (was Stanley):
No? What subject did he do?
Claire Rutt:
Business Studies, I think …
Nadia Pike:
Ooh, yes! I remember him! Lovely dark hair and blue eyes. Not muscly, but definite eye candy! Wonder if he’ll turn up?
Claire Rutt:
Sigh. Probably not. Wasn’t much of a joiner, unless you had a double-barrelled name and daddy owned a yacht … I doubt he’d be interested in a poxy reunion populated with middle-class soccer mums and civil servants.
Sam Broughton (was Stanley):