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She was right, of course, they’d all been awful, but it wasn’t for her to say.
‘That’s what being in your twenties is all about though, isn’t it?’ I said flippantly, wanting to keep things light. ‘Trying things out. Having relationships that don’t work. Making mistakes.’
Mum got the milk out of the fridge and poured it into her best white china jug, which she put on the tray alongside a plate of chocolate digestives.
‘We’ve all made our fair share of those,’ she said.
I filled the teapot with water from the kettle, adding it to the tray.
‘Are you talking about Dad?’ I asked quietly.
We rarely mentioned his name, hadn’t done for years. I’d learned not to. I’d been seven when he’d left and hadn’t had a clue what was going on, except that he wasn’t there any more and I missed him. Whenever I’d asked Mum about it, she’d disappear upstairs and come down ten minutes or so later with red-rimmed eyes and then I’d felt bad. As though I’d been solely responsible for upsetting her.
‘Don’t waste your time wondering about him, Hannah. Because I can guarantee that wherever he is in the world, he won’t be thinking about you.’
‘You don’t know that,’ I said, defensive, even after all this time.
She sighed. ‘If that’s what you want to believe, Hannah. If it’s easier for you, that way.’
I put the teabags away in the cupboard, shutting it carefully.
‘Come on, let’s take these in, shall we?’ said Mum, picking up the tray and giving me a tight smile. I knew what that look meant. It was her way of letting me know that the conversation was over, that now wasn’t the time. It wasn’t of course, with Si sitting next door, but the thing was, it was never the time.
I hung up on Mum, resting my forehead against the keypad and promptly vaulting off it again, remembering how many fingers touched those buttons on a daily basis, not all of them clean. I shoved in a few more coins and dialled Si’s number. I supposed I’d better tell him about the missed train. Reassure him that I was still doing my best to get there. It felt strange for us to be so out of touch, because I could usually get hold of him instantly, whenever I needed him. He was very dependable like that, not like other guys I’d dated. On the odd occasion he went out with friends – he preferred to stay at home with me these days, he said – he always, always gave me a blow-by-blow account of where he was and what he was drinking and what time he’d be back, and so I’d end up feeling part of it, almost as though I was there with him.
After a few rings it went straight to voicemail again. I pushed the heel of my hand into my eye socket and left another message. Surely he’d worked out it was on silent by now. I didn’t want to be the one to mention it because then I’d have to explain how I knew that in the first place. It would be much better if he assumed he’d mistakenly changed the settings himself.
‘Hey, Si. It’s me. There’s a delay my end, I’m afraid. Engineering works, apparently. Don’t reckon I’ll get to Amsterdam until gone five now, so it’ll be very tight, but I’ll make it. Tell Catherine I’m sorry. Oh, and my phone’s been stolen. Gare du Nord is notoriously bad for that, apparently. Nothing’s going right for me today, is it? Anyway. Not sure how you’ll get hold of me from now on. I guess I’ll have to call you. Bye, then.’
I stood still for a bit, letting my heartbeat return to its normal, resting rate, filling my lungs with cool, damp air. I didn’t know why I hadn’t told him the truth, about missing the train. Or about Léo’s bag, and my ankle. It was funny how relationships changed over time. How some of the things you loved about each other to begin with now irritated you beyond belief. And vice versa. Of course vice versa. And because Si and I were very different, in terms of the things we liked and disliked, in the childhoods we’d had, there was lots to get used to about each other. In a way, it was a miracle we’d met in the first place. I remembered that day vividly: the scent of honeysuckle and beer in the air, how it had been one of those balmy, summer London evenings. I’d been on my way to Ellie’s, coming up the escalator at Highgate tube, rootling for my sunglasses in my bag, which I’d found, put on and then promptly pulled back off my face because I really didn’t need shades underground. I’d turned to check out a poster for a new theatre production starring someone I was sure I’d seen in a Channel 4 drama about a missing girl and then, distracted, I went to put my hair up into a bun, knocking off my sunglasses in the process, wincing as I heard them land on the step below.
‘Shit,’ I said, turning to look. I’d paid £25 in Zara for those and now they were probably smashed to pieces.
The person behind me bent down to pick them up.
‘These yours?’ he’d said, stretching his arm out to reach me.
‘Yes. Thanks.’ I held out my hand, taking them from him, my fingers knocking clumsily against his. I met his eye and smiled, caught off-guard by how attractive he was. He was blond, looked like he worked out and was very tall and slightly tanned. His face was completely symmetrical, with everything from his nose to his jawline perfectly aligned. He reminded me of an Irish boyband member, or a kids’ TV presenter. I was so caught up with examining his bone structure that I didn’t realise the top of the escalator was behind me until my heels banged against the metal teeth and I stumbled on to the concourse. Flustered, I attempted to regain my composure by whipping my Oyster card out of my bag in a brusque and business-like manner, as though I was in a terrible hurry.
‘Do you live around here, then?’ he called from behind as I bustled through the ticket barriers.
I looked over my shoulder at him, shaking my head. ‘No. My friend does, though. She’s just round the corner, off the Archway Road.’
‘Oh, me too,’ he said.
I wondered whether he had a girlfriend. A wife, even. Probably. He wasn’t my type, mind you. I much preferred guys who were flawed and a bit messed up like me, to whom I wouldn’t feel eternally inferior.
‘Well it was nice to meet you. Briefly,’ he said, buzzing through behind me.
He had a big, wide smile which was perfectly symmetrical, just like the rest of him. And he must have had highlights; nobody’s hair was that colour. I made a mental note of his features so that I could describe him to Ellie later.
‘You, too,’ I said. I liked the way he had his suit jacket slung casually over his arm, the way he’d undone the top two buttons of his shirt.
I turned and walked away, towards the exit for Archway Road. Just before I started up the steps I heard footsteps behind me.
‘Excuse me?’
It was him again, one hand in his pocket, a shimmer of sweat on his top lip.
‘Hi,’ I said, moving to the side so that people could get past.
‘Um, I know this is weird and feel free to say no,’ he said, ‘but would you fancy going for a drink sometime?’
I remembered trying to play it cool, to look as though getting asked out on the Tube was a regular occurrence. Not only did he look as though he’d walked off a movie set, but he was creating a scene straight out of a Richard Curtis rom com. Perhaps the sequel to Notting Hill. Highgate Village had a nice ring to it. When I’d described it to Ellie later, she’d said it sounded like something that would happen to Jennifer Aniston, which I’d thought summed it up perfectly. I’d presumed I’d never see him again, anyway, because I could count on one hand the number of times a guy had taken my number and had actually called. I’d worked out over the years that it was something they (men) did to avoid awkwardness; a cowardly get-out clause when they decided that they didn’t fancy you enough to bother after all.
