Kate Lawson - Keeping Mum

When he had got back to the car, Andy had had to make sure there was no sand in his shoes in case Fiona found it. He’d showered as soon as he got home, rinsing the fine grit from his hair, feeling it rasp under his fingertips as he rubbed in shampoo, although in the pocket of his leather jacket he still had a little white shell Amelia had given him.

‘You know, Andy, I could learn to really love you,’ Amelia had said, as she pressed it into his hand, before all the crying and the shouting and the running away had started.

Andy looked across the table at her now; she was watching his face intently. ‘So, how are things going?’

Amelia shrugged. ‘Okay.’

‘So…?’ He waited for a second.

Amelia looked up at him from under long, mascara-covered lashes. ‘I know that you said not to ring you at home, but I didn’t know what else to do. I’ve missed you,’ she said, pausing as if trying to gauge his mood. ‘I was worried that you might not come.’ And as she spoke, Amelia began to spoon whipped cream, dusted with chocolate, into her mouth. ‘I wanted us to talk.’

Andy had ordered an espresso; the coffee was as hot as it was bitter and left an unpleasant residue over his tongue and teeth.

‘I can’t stay very long,’ he said, glancing round, tipping his wrist to indicate his watch and time passing, hoping to create some sense of urgency that would persuade her to come to the point.

Over the last few months he’d discovered that Amelia wasn’t very good at getting to the point. She preferred to meander through unrelated backwaters, telling Andy silly things or exciting things or secret things, sometimes things that he would rather not know, sometimes things that took his breath away. When they first met he’d thought it was charming and amusing, but now he found it frustrating, and he felt bad for feeling that about her. She was beautiful and young and every time they met he promised himself that he wouldn’t be bewitched or sidetracked by those things.

‘I can’t be long,’ he pressed.

Amelia nodded, scooping up more whipped cream. There was a tiny blob of it on her chin and he fought the temptation to lean across and wipe it away.

‘It’s all right,’ she said, still watching his face. ‘I know, you have to get back to Fiona. Who are you trying to fool here, Andy? We both know you’re not happy with her. You don’t have to be a genius to work it out. It’s not like you have got any kids or anything. Why don’t you just say something—or just leave? For god’s sake, it’s not rocket science. Start over…’ She stared at him, waiting for a reply. ‘You’re not happy, are you?’

Andy opened his mouth to say something but there were no words there. What could he say?

‘Why don’t you just tell her straight about me, about us?’ she asked. ‘Get it over and done with.’

Andy wasn’t sure what the answer was, and so said nothing. He felt at a loss for not having the right answer, or any kind of answer, come to that. This wasn’t the kind of man he was. The trouble was that, since meeting Amelia, it seemed to be the man he had become—meeting her had changed him forever.

Amelia took his silence for some kind of tacit agreement. ‘Why don’t you leave her, Andy? You know you want to.’

He winced, wishing that he’d never told Amelia that he was unhappy. My girlfriend doesn’t understand me was hardly the most original line he’d ever come up with, and completely stupid really, particularly as Amelia would never have noticed how unhappy he was if he hadn’t told her. She was far too self-obsessed to notice what was going on in anyone’s life but her own.

Across the table, Amelia licked her lips and then rootled through her handbag so that she could check them in a little mirror, adding more gloss from a clear glittery tube, smoothing away the fleck of cream. She ran a finger over her eyebrows, first one and then the other, and Andy noticed as he always did what beautiful hands she had; those long fingers with French-manicured nails. Her component parts constantly caught his attention and enchanted him. She caught him looking at her and smiled slyly. ‘So why don’t you just leave her?’ she asked.

Andy pushed his hands back through his hair; he had no idea now why he had even mentioned it to her. Confession and complaining had never really been his style. But then again he had never lied to Fiona before, nor gone behind her back. This was such a mess.

‘Look Amelia, it’s good to see you, but if there is something you want to say—I mean—I really have got to get back.’

Amelia’s mouth tightened into a little moue of displeasure. ‘I thought that we could talk. I haven’t seen you all week…’

‘Well, we can talk,’ said Andy, hoping that she wasn’t planning to make a scene like the one on the beach. ‘Just not for long. I did say I couldn’t be long today.’ And then he made himself be quiet, because he didn’t want to promise her that they would meet again soon and talk then, because she would want to know where and when and for how long, and her demands made him increasingly uncomfortable. He’d only met her this morning because he was afraid that if he held her off for too long she might turn up at their house, or ring when he wasn’t home. She was unpredictable and she made him uneasy.

Meeting her had shaken his life to the core. Fiona wasn’t the only person that he really should deal with.

And, even as he was thinking it, Amelia looked up at him, her chin resting on her knuckles, and Andy could see how vulnerable she was, how lost, and hated himself for trying to hold her at arms’ length and for being afraid of her. Of course she was right, he really should tell Fiona. About her. About them. About how much he loved her.

‘I’m listening, just tell me what you want to say,’ Andy said, leaning forwards across the table, craning closer so that he could catch every word, his voice soft with compassion.

‘I’m pregnant,’ Amelia said.

‘Right, so has everyone got their starting notes? And is everyone happy with the arrangement for this?’ asked Alan, before rapidly running through the flight plan for a little gospel number the choir were polishing for the All Stars On Tour show. It was also the opening number for the ‘Bon Voyage’ concert they were staging in the Corn Exchange before they left and it really needed to go with a zing.

Alan tapped his baton on the music stand. ‘Mellow—nice and bluesy. Basses in first, twice through the intro and then altos you come in, along with the tenors and finally sopranos. We do the whole thing through a couple of times and then head on home for a big finish? Okay, just watch where I’m going with this—now relax, breathe—and let’s really go for it. Lots of life, plenty of swing,’ said Alan enthusiastically. Standing out in front of the choir, who were currently arranged in concert formation, he looked around the faces to ensure he had everyone’s attention.

‘Right. Here we go. One, two, one two three four…’ and brought the bass section in with a crisp flick of his hands. At least, that was the idea—except that that wasn’t quite what happened. For some reason, things weren’t going well tonight, and the whole number rapidly dissolved into total chaos. The normally crisp dm, dm dm-dm, dm dm—a percussive, plucky snap without a vowel sound, created by the bass section and meant to resemble the sharp rhythmic slap of a well-tuned bass, and a staple part of a lot of ‘a cappella’ choral numbers, which anchored everyone else—sounded like a bag of spanners being dropped down a flight of concrete stairs.

Welsh Alf’s attempts to recover the timing made the whole thing far worse—a lot worse. Within a few bars, the song sounded like a broken engine, mistimed, misfiring and gradually tearing itself apart, while behind it the dm, dm dm-dm, dm dms slowed, stalled and finally faded.