One Good Thing, page 29
‘So I take it that was the ex-husband?’ he asks and I nod. ‘Well, that makes sense.’
‘He just turned up. It was completely out of the blue.’
‘Break-ups hit men later.’
‘But he was the one who had the affair and broke up our marriage.’
‘And now you’re over it, and he’s suddenly realizing what he’s lost.’ Ben shrugs. ‘Trust me, men are idiots.’
‘You don’t seem like an idiot.’
‘I’m a reformed idiot. Don’t you remember me when I was a teenager?’ He grins and reaches for the bread basket.
‘Teenagers are allowed to be idiots – their frontal lobes haven’t developed yet.’
‘I don’t think mine fully developed until I had Stanley.’
I watch him buttering a piece of bread. ‘God, that looks delicious.’
‘It is.’ He takes a bite. ‘Here, have some.’ He holds out the basket, but sees me hesitate. ‘What is it with women and bread?’
‘Says a man who’s never had to try and fit into a pair of skinny jeans.’
‘Well, I’d look a bit silly,’ he says, and I laugh and take a piece. The bread really is as delicious as it looks, especially with a thick smearing of butter from the little silver round. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.
‘So why did it take you so long? The frontal lobe, I mean?’ I ask through a mouthful.
‘I suppose part of me didn’t want to grow up, but when I became a dad, I had to. Simple as that.’ Ben looks at me, his face becoming serious. ‘I wanted Stanley to have the kind of dad I never had.’
There’s a pause. I think about sweeping it aside, like the crumbs on the table. Like I used to do in the past when the conversation was difficult. But I don’t want to do that with Ben – not even when the topics are painful.
‘What was your dad like?’
‘I wish I knew,’ he shakes his head. ‘I never met him. I don’t think Mum even knew who he was.’ He says it matter-of-factly, as if it’s of no consequence, but he doesn’t fool me. ‘Mum had so many useless boyfriends; they liked to knock her about – me too, if they could – so I had to toughen up. That’s when I started getting in trouble with the police, drinking, getting into fights . . . I ended up running away from home.’
I listened. Trying to imagine. My childhood had its share of tragedy, but we were always loved and kept safe.
‘She passed away just before Stanley was born. We’d made it up by then. She wasn’t a bad mum. She just made bad choices.’ He shrugs his shoulders. ‘But I made a promise to myself that it was never going to be like that when I had Stan.’
‘Your relationship with him is amazing.’
‘Thanks. He’s a great kid. I’m lucky.’
‘He’s lucky too,’ I say, and Ben smiles appreciatively.
The waiter returns with our entrées and our conversation turns to the chicken, which is tiny but mouth-watering, although the Parmesan Snow turns out to be slightly disappointing – it’s merely finely shaved Parmesan – which leads us to make up all kinds of silly weather-themed names for ingredients, like Parsley Frost, Tomato Rain and Breadcrumb Drizzle.
‘Actually that one’s pretty good,’ grins Ben, raising his glass of water to toast me.
‘I know, right?’ Chinking my glass against his, my laughter fades as I catch him studying me. ‘What?’ I frown. ‘Have I got food on me?’ I reach for my napkin to brush my mouth.
‘No,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘It’s nothing.’
‘Ah . . . now I know it’s definitely something.’
He smiles then, his eyes crinkling around the edges. ‘I was thinking about when we were teenagers. Who would’ve thought we’d be here now?’
‘Not me!’
‘Well, don’t say it like that.’ He looks offended.
‘No, I don’t mean—’ I break off, casting my mind back. Even now I can remember my feelings of inadequacy around him. ‘You know, I had such a crush on you,’ I confess.
‘A crush on me?’ He looks incredulous and I nod, embarrassed by my admission.
‘But you were so mean to me.’
‘Only because I liked you.’
‘You did?’
It’s the last thing I expect him to say and now it’s my turn to look astonished. He must have got me mixed up with Josie.
‘No, you liked my older sister – you were always flirting with her.’
‘Only because I wanted to get your attention, because I was intimidated by you.’
‘Intimidated by me?’
Seriously, I almost have to check it’s water in his wine glass.
‘You were so pretty and clever, and you had this air about you – everything I wasn’t.’ He pulls a face, then peers at me, creasing his forehead. ‘You didn’t know?’
‘No.’ I shake my head, still trying to take it all in. ‘Of course not. I had no idea.’
Ben’s expression is unreadable as he holds my gaze for a few moments.
‘It was always you,’ he says quietly.
His words unfold themselves and hang in the air between us. And for a few moments we both sit there, realizing how wrong we got it.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I ask finally.
He shrugs and smiles. ‘Told you I used to be an idiot.’
Maya
‘Damn, my phone’s about to die and I’ve forgotten my charger.’
‘No way.’
‘Way.’
Stretched out on the sofa, Maya had spent the last hour FaceTiming with Will. Before that she’d been texting friends, scrolling through her socials and updating the rescue shelter’s Facebook page.
‘I’ve got less than five per cent.’
‘We can do a lot with five per cent,’ Will grinned flirtily.
‘Ha-ha.’ She rolled her eyes.
Maya was trying hard to play it cool, but Will was giving her all the feels. She tried angling the camera so it was more flattering. She’d turned off the overhead lighting, put on some lamps and a lit a candle, to try give it some mood lighting, but her face still looked fat.
‘Stop moving the camera – you’re breaking up.’
‘Sorry, my arm’s going to sleep.’ She really wished she had cheekbones
‘Yeah, me too.’ Will let out a wide yawn. ‘I didn’t get in until three a.m.’
Maya felt a twist of insecurity but tried to hide it. ‘Sounds like a good party.’
Will pulled a face. ‘It was OK. It would’ve been a lot better if you were there.’
A look passed between them and she glowed inside.
‘I gotta go too. I have to be up early to volunteer at the shelter. It’s my last weekend before I leave for uni.’
‘For real?’
‘Yep.’
‘Awesome.’
Breaking into a wide smile, Will shook his head, letting his hair flop into the camera. When Maya had told him about getting her place to study law at Manchester he’d been totally stoked for her, giving her lots of advice about the course, reassuring her that she’d love it. She looked at him now, peering up at her from underneath his fringe. She wondered if he knew how sexy he looked when he did that. Probably, but she didn’t care.
‘OK, it’s down to one per cent.’
‘Bye, one per cent.’
‘Call you tomorrow.’
Her phone died just as she was saying goodbye. She looked at her watch. Liv and Ben had said they’d be home by midnight at the latest. Yawning, Maya grabbed the remote and flicked through a few channels, but there was nothing interesting on. She was tired. She might take a snooze and, feeling her eyelids growing heavy, she closed her eyes.
Sticky Toffee Pudding
The dessert menu is impressive. Lots of exquisite-sounding cakes and flans, featuring intricate concoctions of puff pastry and exotic-sounding ingredients. And yet, to be honest, despite how wonderful they all sound, nothing takes my fancy.
‘There’s cheese and biscuits,’ proposes Ben. ‘I bet they do some nice stinky cheese.’
‘Hmm.’ I smile politely. Normally I love stinky cheese, but there’s nothing normal about tonight. ‘Sorbet?’ I suggest.
Ben gives me a look but doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. It’s a look that says who, in their right mind, would order sorbet for a pudding? Especially at £7.50 a scoop. Even if it is mango.
We both look back at the menu. It really is very fancy.
‘You know what I really feel like,’ I blurt out, then quickly stop myself. ‘No, forget it.’
‘What?’
I hesitate, looking round to make sure no one is listening, then lean closer and lower my voice.
‘The sticky toffee pudding they serve at the Crooked Billet.’
‘With loads of custard,’ Ben adds, his face lighting up.
For a moment we both look at each other, imagining its sweet, gooey deliciousness, then give up with the dessert menu. Because, of course, now the thought’s out there, neither of us can think of anything else.
‘If we leave now, we should just make last orders . . .’
Ten minutes later we’re in the van and driving back to Nettlewick – Ben at the wheel, me in the passenger seat – feeling like we’re on the run, Bonnie and Clyde-style, from the maître d’, who tried very hard to convince us to have the millefeuille and got very sniffy about it all when we refused. It gave us both the giggles and we’re still laughing about it. It’s like being drunk, except we’re both stone-cold sober and I’ve never felt more wide awake.
‘I make it a rule not to eat a dessert I can’t pronounce,’ I’m saying now as we wind along the country lanes, full beams on.
‘What is bloody millefeuille anyway?’ says Ben, in a way that no French person has ever said it, which makes me burst out laughing again.
I dig out my phone. ‘I’m going to check on Maya . . .’
‘You mean Harry,’ he grins and, busted, I smile. ‘You love that dog, don’t you?’
‘He’s not just a dog – he’s my one good thing.’
‘Hey!’ he cries, pretending to be offended. ‘What about me?’
‘No, I don’t mean it like that,’ I shake my head. ‘I’m talking about before, when everything fell apart and life felt so hopeless.’ As my mind flicks back, I become serious. ‘All you need is one good thing to turn life around and make it worth living again. Do you know what I mean?’
For a split second our eyes meet.
‘It could be anything really,’ I shrug, thinking about the email I wrote to Josie, in which I’d tried to explain it all. ‘Just some small, random act of kindness – something seemingly inconsequential. Like a smile from a stranger, or a song on the radio, or a beautiful sunset . . . or the barista giving you a love heart on your coffee.’ I smile, thinking how sometimes brightening up someone’s day can be life-changing.
‘Or it can be something much bigger,’ I say, my mind running over all the possibilities. ‘Like a phone call from the doctor giving you the all-clear, or an email saying you got the job, or a hug from someone you love . . .’ My mind casts itself back and I think about Valentine and Gisele that day on the beach. ‘Just one good thing that changes the course of everything . . .’
Ben is listening, but he doesn’t say anything.
‘For me, that one good thing was Harry. He came into my life when I was so lost. He was the reason I got up in the morning, went out for a walk, met Valentine and Maya and Stanley . . . And I’m so grateful, because when I desperately needed one good thing, he was it.’ I break off, suddenly feeling self-conscious. ‘Does that make me sound crazy?’
‘No, not at all.’
Ben briefly takes his eyes off the road to glance across at me.
‘After Janet died, there were lots of dark days. Some days I didn’t want to carry on, if it hadn’t been for Stanley—’ His voice catches in his throat and he swallows hard. ‘He’s my one good thing.’
I nod and for a moment we both fall silent, watching the open road.
‘I have a question, though.’
I turn to look at Ben and he’s smiling.
‘Can you have more than one good thing?’
‘Are you flirting?’ I ask with mock-indignation, and he laughs and I feel the mood lighten, as outside the windows the Dales flash past, cloaked in darkness. ‘Yeah, and that’s what’s so brilliant,’ I nod, in answer to his question, ‘because once you have one good thing, you start to find more and more – it’s like a chain reaction.’ I pause and think of all the wonderful things that have happened since I first brought Harry home and then, remembering the phone call I was going to make, I glance down at my phone. ‘No service.’
‘Don’t worry, I texted Maya earlier when you were in the loo. She said everything was fine. Anyway, we’ll be home soon enough.’
‘We’ll get one pudding, two spoons,’ I suggest.
He looks horrified. ‘Crikey, steady on. I don’t know about that.’
I laugh and slip my phone back in my pocket. I’ve got that warm, fuzziness inside that comes from feeling that, whatever’s happened in the past, all is now right in the world. I look across at Ben, who has both hands steady on the wheel, remembering when I first accepted that lift home. I glance at his chaos of receipts shoved between the dashboard and the windscreen. He’s made a valiant attempt at tidying up – the empty takeout cups and chocolate wrappers have been thrown away at least – but whereas the mess freaked me out the first time he gave me a lift, now I feel a strange affection for it.
I like that Ben doesn’t care about stuff like that. That he’s too busy caring about his son, and working hard, to give two hoots about what things look like on the outside. Because it’s what’s on the inside that matters. For so many years I gathered things neatly around me: the nice house and the happy marriage, and the good job with promotions. No chaos here. No messy emotions or drama and disorder stuffed into the dashboard of my life.
Oh, how wrong I was.
Ben slips his hand onto my knee and leaves it resting there. I rest my hand on top, threading my fingers through his. Neither of us says anything. No one needs to. In my mind’s eye I have an image of us from above: this little white van speeding through the countryside, a white dot in the darkness. There’s a chill tonight and the heaters are blowing, but cocooned together in the warmth, I can’t remember the last time I felt this happy.
‘What’s that?’
Abruptly I catch sight of flashing lights in the wing mirror, followed seconds later by the sound of a siren wailing behind us.
‘It looks like the police,’ says Ben, checking his rear-view. ‘There must have been an accident.’
He takes his hand off my knee and puts both hands on the wheel as he pulls over, allowing them to pass on the narrow lane.
A police car races past, sirens shrieking. I feel a beat of alarm.
‘I hope the people are OK,’ I murmur, my mood suddenly sober. ‘I wonder where it’s going?’
‘Looks like it’s heading to Nettlewick.’ Ben’s voice is drowned out by more sirens. ‘Shit!’
This time it’s a fire engine. Two of them.
As they hurtle past, the atmosphere inside the van suddenly darkens. Checking the road’s clear, Ben pulls back onto the road. Neither of us says anything, but I notice his knuckles are white on the wheel as we follow them. He speeds up. Anxiety twists in the pit of my stomach.
‘I’m sure it’s fine. Probably a false alarm from someone.’
But even as I’m saying it, we’re pulling into the village and ahead of us I can see the cluster of fire engines and police cars, the flashing lights . . .
‘There’s a fire! A house is on fire!’
The panic in Ben’s voice cuts through me, and my heart starts to race.
‘No. It can’t be.’
I strain forward, trying to see. Dread and fear clutch at my throat. Which house? Which house? I smell the smoke before I see it, billowing into the sky. Feel my worst fears realized as I recognize the house that’s ablaze.
‘Please God. No!’
PC Neesha Sharma
The call came through to the station as she was about to go off-duty and head home. It was from the operator at the control room of the Fire and Rescue Service. Someone had called 999 to report a house fire. A Mrs Iris Shackleton from the village of Nettlewick. She gave the address of her neighbour’s house. At first it didn’t register. Nettlewick was ten miles away and a rural community in the northernmost part of the district. They weren’t the village’s local police station, but it was asking for backup. Apparently it was a pretty bad house fire.
PC Sharma thought about passing it on to a colleague. It had been a long shift and all she could think about was a takeaway and a hot bath. But it was her job. She had a duty. It could be her family one day that needed help. It was only when she was in the patrol car on the way that she remembered Nettlewick was where Maya had said she was babysitting tonight. Straight away she called her daughter, but it went to voicemail. Maya never turned her phone off. That’s when Neesha’s blood ran cold.
By the time she arrived, the ground floor of the terraced house was alight. Two fire crews were attending the scene, and there was an ambulance waiting and another patrol car. House fires were terrifying. They could be unpredictable and uncontrollable and they happened so fast. PC Sharma had been doing this job for more than twenty years, but house fires still got to her. Especially when there were children involved. Your house is where you feel safe; it’s there to protect you and the people you love. No one goes to bed at night thinking they might never get out alive.
But she was lucky. Maya had got out alive and when her daughter saw her, she ran over and collapsed, crying and shaking in Neesha’s arms. She was hysterical. The little boy was still trapped inside. She hadn’t been able to get to him as the fire had blocked the staircase. She kept saying it over and over again. Talking about the flames and the smoke. Thick black smoke. And how she couldn’t breathe. That’s when she’d run outside, screaming for someone to call 999.
