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‘Is that all?’ This, he shouts – shouts at the phone, alone in the dark shell of the car, gripped by a spike of almost overwhelming rage.
There is no kiss. There is no humour, no warmth. Nospeak tomorrow. Nogoodnight. No asking what the gift was or why he would drive half an hour to her door in the middle of the night. There is not even any anger, nowhat the hell?Nothat’s a bit weird, Sam, don’t you think?There is only this… this businesslike response, as if he has called by in the late afternoon to drop off a book he has borrowed and, finding her out, left it on the porch.
Another spike, as fleeting as the last: resentment. He drove all that way. He is still in his pyjamas, for God’s sake. He is hardly a stranger, after all, and she replied curtly without even wondering what the romantic gesture might be. He was wrong about the anger too – there is anger all over that reply, of course there is. It is an all-too-familiar punishment: the cold shoulder.
Staring at his phone in his hand, it is like trying to decode a thousand-year-old message carved into a stone tablet. He remembers a similar confusion: the time he brought the wrong flavour crisps back from the supermarket. Naomi had asked for lightly salted, but when he got to the shop, there was only salt and balsamic vinegar, Thai chilli or chicken and thyme. He stood for whole minutes, frozen by indecision. Surely salt and vinegar was the nearest to lightly salted? Salt in the title? No? Or was chicken and thyme better, less sharp, equally savoury? Chilli? No. Yes. No. Too spicy? He can barely believe the way his thoughts ran so out of control back then, is aghast at the person he was, fretting over… what? A packet of bloody crisps! And even now he can remember the dim sense that feeling like that over something so small was wrong, that something in him had broken, though as yet it had not occurred to him that Naomi herself was the architect of this damage.
His knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. No. That is not who she is anymore. It is not whoheis. It is not even an objective take on what has just happened, nor what happened years ago. He was too sensitive, still is. Naomi always told him that. Obviously he used to feel hurt whenever she said it, but of course he could not protest without proving her right. Instead he swallowed down his injury like blood in saliva after a hard right hook to the jaw.
But he has grown up a lot since then. They both have.
The night of the crisps, when he got home having finally plumped for salt and vinegar, she pulled a face and told him she didn’t like salt and vinegar, that the Thai chilli would have been better, but oh well, it was too late now. She sat in silence and watched him eat the crisps. Did not take even one, sipped her vodka and Diet Coke through thin lips.
So what? She was cross, that was all. People are allowed to be cross. She didn’t shout and scream, didn’t wrestle him into a headlock. The nausea that rose in him under her cold gaze was an overreaction; he can see that now. And she was entitled to her feelings too. It wasn’t against himpersonally. He should have been stronger. He should havesoothedher, should have stood up to her. He is a man after all. Women need strong men, not indecisive, oversensitive fools.
But he wasn’t strong. He didn’t tackle it. He left. And in leaving caused her so much damage, damage he now has to heal. His job is to make her feel safe again, and instead he has called on her house in the middle of the night like a weirdo, frightened her off just when things were better than they have ever been. She will feel watched, checked up on.
How did he ever believe himself some romantic hero? How, before, did he ever believehimselfthe wronged party?
I hate what you turn me into with your big trampling feet.
‘Fool!’ He bangs the steering wheel with the flat of his hand. ‘Fucking idiot!’
Sure, is all he can think to reply. It is a fraction of what he longs to write. Wednesday is aweekaway; there is no way he can cope without seeing her before then. What about the weekend? Friday? Tomorrow? He can’t ask now. He needs time to make up for his mistake. He adds a kiss and sends the message. But when he writes a second text withPSI love you,he finds he hasn’t the courage to send it.
He restarts the MG. Tomorrow he will book the register office. Decisive action. He can meet her from work and… No. No! Get a grip! Commitment, yes, but with space. He can maybe take her out on Saturday night, offer to pay for the babysitter as well as a restaurant, if they can find one open, yes; and the money for Tommy, they can get that organised too. He will dig himself out of this. She has shown him how much she has changed; it’s up to him now to prove to her that the change is on both sides.
CHAPTER 36
Dear Sam,
I won’t lie, I felt a bit freaked out when you came round in the middle of the night. And when you replied to my message, I showed Jo and she said, Oh my God! Seriously, though, Sam, what the hell? You don’t drive to a woman’s house in the middle of the night without warning. That is weird, honestly. I never thought you’d do something like that – you used to be so respectful.
When I got back, Cheryl told me you didn’t even say why you were there or whether it was urgent or anything. She said she found you loitering around the front door. You can’t do that. I don’t want her thinking I’m with a lunatic.
I’m curious though. Why did you drive over? Booty call, maybe? All this sexual tension driving you a bit bonkers? I think the women in those period dramas were on to something, you know. No one keeps anyone waiting anymore. I know I never have. But it’s amazing how much control it gives you. And now I’m thinking maybe I always gave myself too quickly, you know, before? Maybe that’s why men never appreciated me enough, treated me like dirt. Maybe that’s why you left – maybe I should’ve held back more.
If I wait, will it bond us together more deeply in the end? Will it make us a closer family?
CHAPTER 37
The next morning, he texts Miranda to tell her he’ll be late at the site, and, as soon as nine o’clock comes, calls Lyme Regis Register Office. He explains he wants a small, intimate wedding. The friendly woman on the phone tells him he can book the Guildhall; they can be married overlooking the bay. It will be three to four hundred pounds for the ceremony, plus a further fee for the registrar. If he wants something even smaller, he can contact the Dorset Registration Service and arrange a ceremony at their offices in Dorchester. This will cost him much less.
‘It’s not about the money,’ he says. ‘It’s more about the privacy and… We would want it to happen as soon as possible.’
‘All right,’ she says but falls silent.
‘End of June?’
‘End of June, we could do you a Monday. Fridays are all booked. Wednesdays a bit hit and miss. A Monday any good to you?’
‘Would I need witnesses?’
‘You’d need two witnesses, but we can provide those for a fee.’
He tells her he’ll get back to her, calls Dorset Registration Service. Another friendly woman tells him it will be forty-six pounds to be married and that the ceremony would take place in Dorset Historic Centre in Dorchester. Witnesses are thirty-four pounds each. Again, he thanks the woman and tells her he’ll get back to her.
He closes the call and sighs. It’s so hard to know which type of ceremony Naomi would prefer. He wanted to return to her with something concrete, to make up for last night. He would book the Guildhall immediately, of course he would. But it might be overkill. When they spoke about it on Wednesday, Naomi said she wanted something super private. Dorchester would be exactly that, plus he might even be able to find a hotel for the night.
