Sara Foster - Come Back to Me

‘June!’ George scolded crossly. ‘It’s actually none of our business, and besides, our girls have produced enough between them to keep a primary school from going under.’

Alex’s attention was still on Chloe, but he didn’t seem shocked now so much as intrigued. Maybe he hadn’t guessed at all.

Chloe avoided meeting his gaze, then sat back and closed her eyes. June was still talking about how Jeanna and Michael were planning to travel for six months next year, now that they’d come to terms with the news. Lucky old Jeanna, Chloe thought to herself, then immediately rubbed her tummy superstitiously and said silently, I didn’t mean it, baby. I didn’t mean it.

Mark arrived at the house in a foul mood. An hour’s journey on a winter’s night had taken him more than twice as long as it should have done. Had he not felt so tired, he would have been furious and vowing to write to somebody important over this disgrace of a transport system. Leaves on the line, snow on the line – even bloody bodies on the line, according to one whispered remark behind him. There was something utterly repulsive about the mindset of a commuter, that now, every time he heard of a body on the line his only thought was, ‘Well, get it off the bloody line, then, and let’s be on our way.’

In actual fact a train had broken down ahead of the one Mark was on, so he had to get off and board a bus between Orpington and Sevenoaks. At that point he’d tried to call his parents to collect him rather than suffer the indignity of bus travel with a plague of hyperactive adolescents, the boys’ low-slung waistbands beginning on roughly the same portion of their bodies as the girls’ tiny skirts ended. However, the house phone at The Willows rang out without even the answering machine clicking on, so Mark endured the bumpy, windy bus ride with his head stuck determinedly behind his paper, not reading a word, but checking his watch every two seconds until the bus pulled up outside Sevenoaks Station.

Thank god there was a cab there. He pushed his way through the throngs on the platform and raced along the walkway with his arm outstretched and a silent plea that no one would claim it first. The cabbie nodded as he got in and said, ‘Barnfield Drive, please’, then they were off. Mercifully, the driver was a silent let’s-get-you-there type rather than one of the let’s-get-it-all-off-my-chest-on-the-way cabbies Mark dreaded. Cab time was vital court-prepping time, and you didn’t need someone asking your advice about importing their underage Thai girlfriend.

When he finally arrived he was somewhat disconcerted to find the house in total darkness. It wasn’t a major problem, he had a key, but still – as they had invited him over, they should at least be home.

He let himself in and switched on a few lights. The answering machine on the Edwardian rosewood table in the hallway showed a resolute 0 messages. The curtains to the front rooms were still open, so he went around closing them, wondering where on earth his parents could be. The house seemed so quiet now, since the dog had died a few years before.

He peeked into his father’s study, feeling like a trespassing child, hearing his father saying to his ten-year-old self, ‘The law is the foundation upon which society stands, and also upon which it falls. Ergo, to uphold the law is the most important job that one can do,’ as Mark was allowed to handle legal books reverently as though they were lost covenants. But the room was absolutely still.

He went back to the lounge, poured himself some Glenmorangie and sat down on one of the leather armchairs, idly picking up a nearby National Geographic and flicking through it with no real interest in the content. His mind kept drifting towards shiny dark hair and mesmerising brown eyes. Bloody hell, why on earth couldn’t he just let it go; even thinking about her made him feel like an idiot.

Two hours and a few more glasses of whisky later, he was exhausted. He had tried both parents’ mobiles, but they were off. He briefly thought about ringing hospitals or checking the news for car accidents, but he couldn’t imagine his father rushing into a panic in the same situation – in fact, Henry would just have been enraged at the inconsideration – and his resolve stiffened. He would go to bed, sleep on it, and if they weren’t home by morning he would be sure something was up. He’d grown up with a father promising to be places and turning up hours late, if at all, due to some kind of emergency court session/meeting/law function. Perhaps his mother had been dragged into some such thing and they’d forgotten he was coming – they’d arranged it a couple of weeks ago, after all.

He pulled at his loose tie, brought it over his head and folded it into a small neat oblong. Then he made his way wearily up the stairs, grateful now for the sandwich he’d grabbed on the train, which at the time he’d thought of as a stale appetiser for the decent meal he would be getting at home.

He had just crawled beneath the sheets when he heard the front door open, and footsteps echo through the hallway then up the stairs. They paused on the landing outside his door, but Mark froze, annoyed at his parents now for being so tardy. Not long after they moved on, he was asleep.

When Mark woke up, light was marauding through the gap between the curtains. He knew something was wrong. He couldn’t believe that he hadn’t known it the night before. A quick check of his mobile told him it was ten past eight, and he pulled on some clothes before rushing downstairs.

His mother sat at the kitchen table, one hand pressed to her forehead as she brooded over a cup of tea.

‘Where were you last night?’ he asked tersely.

‘I needed to go out.’

‘Well, that’s nice. You invite me over for dinner then neither of you can be bothered to turn up. Thanks a lot.’

‘Oh, Mark,’ his mother turned on him with a glare. ‘Stop being such a pouty little boy. That’s the last thing I need right now, seeing as your father’s run off in a sulk.’

‘What? What do you mean? Why didn’t you wake me?’ Mark replied, more angrily than he intended.

‘There’s nothing you can do,’ his mother said, not looking up.

‘Why… what…?’ Mark asked, uncomprehending. ‘Where’s Dad gone?’

Finally, his mother looked at him. Her face had lost some of its usual composure. Her cheeks sagged, her eyes were red.

‘I don’t know,’ she sighed. ‘He just left.’

‘Left?’ Mark was mystified. ‘What? What do you mean left?’

‘He packed a bag, and left.’ His mother shrugged her shoulders. ‘He didn’t tell me where he was going. When I asked him, he told me to fuck off.’

Mark couldn’t help it, the laugh was out before he could stop it. ‘Don’t be silly,’ was all he said. At which point his mother rose slowly and imperiously from her seat. She put her hands on the table, leaned forward, and, with such vehemence that Mark took a step back, hissed, ‘Don’t you ever say that to me. Ever. ’ She waved a finger at him then paused, eyeing him mirthlessly, before she sighed and said coldly, ‘Stop trying to make yourself into an identical version of your father.’ She gave a rasping laugh, warped and humourless. ‘ That is not such a great thing to be, Mark. I’d aim a bit higher, if I were you.’

Mark held up his hands in surrender, though anger began to course through him at her words. ‘Well then, Mum, why don’t you explain this to me properly, and then I might have more chance of understanding exactly what’s going on.’

Emily Jameson turned her empty eyes towards him. ‘He’s been in one hell of a mood for a while, then he came home yesterday, wouldn’t say two words to me, packed a bag and told me he was leaving. When I’d ranted enough he grabbed me by the shoulders and told me it was for my own good! Hah!’ She turned around abruptly so he couldn’t see her face, and stared out of the kitchen window. ‘I always knew he was a condescending, supercilious bastard – I knew there’d be a few floosies somewhere, a few tarts lurking on the side – but I never thought he’d actually leave.’ Her voice broke on the ‘ never ’.