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“Oh my god,” I cry, “what on earth happened? Is Nick all right?”
Louise is quiet for a few seconds and then, “We don’t really know, Audrey. Ronan called Tina looking for you. Apparently, he still had her mobile number from when they were dating years ago.” Ronan is Nick’s cousin, it’s how I met Nick. “He said he couldn’t get a hold of you, tried your landline, but obviously, you’re away, and didn’t have a mobile number.” That’s true. Ronan would call Nick at my flat occasionally, but he and I never bothered exchanging mobile numbers, didn’t see the point, really. We hardly saw Ronan since he moved to Dublin, anyway. I think the last time we got together was about five years ago when we flew over for his daughter’s christening. Nick invited them all to our wedding, of course, and although we were expecting the whole family to attend. Ronan turned up on Nick’s doorstep two weeks beforehand. Alone.
“Doctors have confirmed that he was over the limit, though,” Louise goes on. “He’s lucky to be alive.” Her sigh crackles down the line. “I can’t believe it happened on the eve of your wedding day. How ironic is that? Talk about Karma.” I clamp a hand over my mouth. My stomach twists. How could she be so cold at a time like this? A tear rolls down my face, curves over my lip and slides into my mouth. “Audrey, are you still there?” I feel as if I’ve been winded. I swallow back a big ball of guilt. This is all my fault. Nick’s a sensible drinker. He’d never ride his motorbike if he’d had too much. I drove him to it; he was feeling guilty because of me, because I refused to postpone our wedding. What have I done?
On our way to Larnaca airport, I sit quietly in Mum’s arms in the back of the taxi, gazing ahead in a tearful stupor, catching worried glances from Stephanos the driver in his rear-view mirror. Mum strokes my hair lovingly, reassuring me with platitudes – it isn’t my fault, he’s a grown man. It was his decision to jump on that stupid motorbike of his and put his and other people’s lives at risk. “I always said that bike was dangerous, didn’t I?” she complains. “It’s a good job you weren’t on the back of it. Can you put your foot down please, Stephanos, we’re running late.”
“Sure, Mrs. Fox.”
We race along the dual carriageway, wind blowing in my face from a gap in the window. “I caused it,” I say flatly, laden with guilt. “How can it not be my fault?” And then I suddenly pull away, panic-stricken, “What if he dies? Oh, Mum, I don’t know what I’d do,” I gasp.
Mum bites hard on her lips for a few moments, grimacing, and I realise that I’m digging my nails into her flesh. I let go. “Audrey, I don’t mean to be harsh, sweetheart.” She closes her eyes, exhaling loudly through her nose. “But he’s not your responsibility anymore, is he? You’re no longer together. He’s just your ex, love.” I stare at her in disbelief. How can she be so callous? What if he doesn’t make it? “He called off your wedding, remember? What kind of a man does that to a woman he loves, hmmm?”
“Well, at least he didn’t leave me at the altar,” I say defensively, annoyed that she and Dad aren’t as devastated as I am. They’ve known Nick for years. He was part of our family. “At least he had the decency to talk to me about it face to face.” And I don’t miss the worried look that Mum shoots Dad as he studies us in the sun visor mirror. The rest of the journey to Larnaca Airport is in pained silence.
* * *
There is nothing more annoying than sitting next to a stranger on a five-hour night flight to London listening to him snoring loudly and profusely to the backdrop of a roaring aircraft’s engine. People at adjacent seats are getting ratty, shifting uncomfortably in their seats and throwing him annoyed glances, which is futile really as he’s fast asleep, but very British nonetheless. I resist the urge to get up, shake him awake and tell him to stop being so damned selfish and give us all a frigging break because we’re all bloody exhausted. But only just, mind. And why do flight attendants assume that just because you are sitting next to someone of the opposite sex on an aeroplane that you’re an item?
“Does he want anything?” whispers the air-steward politely. He places a miniature bottle of vodka and tonic onto the table in front of me and nods at the snorer.
“I don’t know,” I say lightly. “I don’t know him.” The plane swerves and my stomach flips as the ding of the seatbelt alert plays in the background, flashing on the overhead panel.
“Oh, I am sorry.” The steward has gone slightly red, “I thought you were together.” Why? I want to scream. I know I’m a forty- something woman who’s just been jilted by her ex-fiancé who now just happens to be lying helplessly in the Critical Care Unit of a north London hospital, but don’t you think I’d chose a partner who wasn’t old enough to be my grandfather? I look at my fellow traveller sleeping soundly next to me, his head tilted to one side, giving a bit of movement to his two-toned wiry toupee.
“He has only just nodded off,” I offer.
“We’d best leave him be then,” the steward says, “he does look knackered.”
Reclining my head on the padded headrest, I remember how tired I was the very first time I met Nick. I’d had a crap day at the office and all I wanted to do that evening was crash out at home with a takeaway and a lovely glass of ice-cold Moscato, but Tina, my second bestie, had other ideas.
We bumped into Nick the moment we walked through the doors of The Crown’s Head pub in Camden. Tina had just started dating Ronan and was all loved up. I wish she’d stuck with Ronan, instead of marrying that smack-head Mickey. Their marriage only lasted four months. I told her to leave him on their wedding day when he tried to sell me cocaine outside the church.
The pub was heaving. Tina, Nick and I spent the entire evening huddled around a wooden, glass-stained table, drinking Cabernet Sauvignon and telling tales. Nick made me laugh so much that I almost wet myself. He was so easy to talk to and very easy on the eye too, and, unlike many other men I’d met, he didn’t spend the entire evening talking about himself or trying to impress us. He listened and was actually interested in what we had to say. I liked him. A lot.
It was almost seven months before our paths crossed again, at a smart little Italian restaurant in Crouch End where Louise worked as Sous chef. Tina and I were sampling her latest gastro creation when Nick breezed in.
“Hey, Audrey,” he said after exchanging preambles with Tina. He remembered my name, I was impressed. I didn’t bother getting up, so he leaned over and kissed me on both cheeks. The smell of tobacco and his citrus aftershave lingered in the air, “How’s it going?” An attractive, slim brunette with striking red lips and big hoop silver earrings stood close beside him, her haphazard long plait flung forward over her left shoulder like a Spanish temptress. Clearly not too pleased to see us, she spent the entire time huffing and rolling her eyes whilst giving me and Tina intermittent evils, all the while holding onto Nick’s arm so tightly that I’m surprised she didn’t cut off his blood supply. We exchanged the usual pleasantries - Tina asked after Ronan, and when Nick said that Ronan was engaged to a local girl called Catherine, I didn’t miss the flicker of disappointment in Tina’s eyes, and, I later found out, neither did Nick.
“Listen, girls,” Nick said, swiftly moving on. “I’m having a little flat-warming party next week. If you’ve no other plans why don’t you drop by? I’d love to see you both.”
As it happened, we didn’t have any other plans, and Tina, being a fun-loving party animal, almost tore Nick’s arm off when he handed her his business card with his address scribbled on the back. Louise got her usual childminder for Jess and the three of us turned up on his doorstep with a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. The memory of that night still makes me smile. Minus the Spanish temptress girlfriend, Nick and I danced the twist all evening because it’s the only dance he can do – two left feet, I’m afraid. It was the best party I’d been to in ages, and by the end of the night, or should I say early hours of the morning, I was smitten. I knew from that moment on that he was the one. The rest, as they say, is history.
6
I look up at the small screen in front of me. We’re flying over Munich now – almost home. The ‘snorer’ is still asleep, mouth ajar, but the snoring is now a bearable muffled grunt. Most of the other passengers have woken up, anyway. A pretty little girl with long strawberry-blonde, corkscrew curls has been visiting the toilet at almost ten-minute intervals, spending only a few seconds in there and then rushing back down the aisle shaking her wet hands. I wonder if she has OCD. George had a spell of OCD when he was about eight. He used to wash his hands three times in succession and perform other rituals. I used to watch him silently with great intrigue until one day my curiosity got the better of me and I quizzed him over it.
“If I don’t do it,” he warned heatedly, “something bad will happen to all of us.” Terrified, I ran and told Mum immediately. It soon emerged that he was being bullied at school for being a little overweight and the stress of it all had brought on the condition. It took a while, but he recovered with the help of our lovely GP and lots of TLC.
The child rubs her little hands together and gives me a small, timid smile, then dips her head and scuttles off down the long aisle.
I adjust in my seat. I need a wee for the umpteenth time. A queue of women a mile long has assembled outside the toilet cubicle, so I can forget it. I do sometimes wonder if my bladder is the size of a pea. I cross my legs. A teenage boy wearing a headset catches my eye. He’s staring at a glowing screen in front of him, flicking back his long black fringe and chuckling intermittently. I smile sadly. Nick loved all the in-flight entertainment. He’d watch whatever film was on offer while I’d read a novel from cover to cover.
I feel exhausted. I’ve got to stop thinking about the past. I rest my head back to the hiss of a can being opened and the muffled hum of conversation. My eyes sting from sleep deprivation. If I could rest them for just a few moments.
“We’d have been on our honeymoon now if I hadn’t been such an idiot.” Nick’s voice bellows in my ears. I open my eyes wide. I can’t fall asleep now. I won’t let myself dream about him again. I don’t think I can take the strain. But it’s true. We’d have been in Goa now, living it up in a five-star luxury hotel as Mr and Mrs Byrne if he hadn’t called our wedding off at the last moment. My mind rewinds to the night of our break up.
“We’ve got to talk,” he said as I loaded the dishwasher hurriedly.
