one arm, stroking a finger along her naked spine, counting the tiny moles on her back. He always wants her, even when he’s too drunk to do anything about it and she’s never denied him. She’s soft, willing and compliant. But the reality is that even when he hungrily invades her, even when he comes with a thunderous rush of pleasure, even as she whispers, ‘Please, David, please,’ he doesn’t really penetrate her. It’s this insatiable desire, this urgent need to connect that makes him want her so badly.
‘I’ve tried to give you everything,’ he murmurs. ‘I’m sorry.’ He wants to add, ‘I know you don’t love me, but promise you won’t leave me. Stay with me forever. I’m nothing without you.’ But he’s afraid that saying the words out loud will validate them. And if Antonia hears, she’ll despise him for his weakness, of that much he’s certain.
As the whisky slowly drags David into sleep, his mind replays the last two days: insurance, his bank manager; Charlie, Charlie ill; angry clients; too much alcohol, too many lies. And finally Antonia. She laughed at one of his jokes over dinner and just for an instant he glimpsed a different person, but the moment passed as quickly as it came.
As a small boy on a boating holiday abroad he’d seen the same look on his mother’s face. ‘Look, the sea’s turquoise. Jump in, Mummy! I dare you!’ He’d said those words knowing that Mummy would laugh and shake her head. But despite her carefully made-up face and her jewellery, she jumped into the sea without a moment’s hesitation. He clapped his hands with delight as he watched from the side of the boat. Then he anxiously waited for his mother’s copper hair to reappear from the salty depths of the ocean, caught with a sudden fear she might drown, that he might never see her again. But when she emerged from the sparkling sea, just for a second as the sun caught her face, he thought she was someone else. Someone young, happy and free. But the moment was lost when his father pulled the pipe from his mouth and cleared his throat noisily. He stared at his wife and shook his head before replacing the pipe and pointedly consulting the map.
Mike’s head feels leaden on the pillow, crammed with listless negatives as he considers the day. Rachel, lovely Rachel, her face white with reproach. Little Hannah’s tears. And Olivia, his wife Olivia, unrecognisable Olivia. And his associate’s baby, a healthy son.
He closes his eyes, reviewing a scene at St Mary’s maternity hospital from over a year ago. ‘Just a routine scan,’ the consultant obstetrician had said with easy charm. ‘Nothing to worry about, the bump just seems a little small – probably a small baby.’
They’d strolled in for the scan, like many times before. But the face of the sonographer was blank as she looked at the screen. A face that told them everything.
‘What’s happened? What’s wrong?’ A look of panic on Olivia’s face.
But Mike knew. Mike understood. There was no need to wait until Olivia had wiped the gel from her stomach and covered her naked bump. No need to wait in a room with a door, not a curtain. No need to hear the words, ‘I’m sorry, there’s no heartbeat, the baby has died.’
He sighs and turns in the dark. There’s no point in rewinding the film. There’s nothing he can do to change the past. Just like with his little sister, he can’t bring them back. And it’s late. With or without the dog, he must sleep. A voice echoes in his ears as he drifts off. ‘Our Father, who art in Heaven.’ The words repeat in his mind every night, like a mantra. But the words aren’t his and they’re hollow.
‘Morning, Mike, lovely weather still,’ Judith says, glancing at him as she adjusts the collar of her blouse and wondering, as she seems to every day, whether she might have overdone her perfume. She does a double take. ‘Are you OK? You look terrible!’ She studies Mike’s handsome face. He looks tired, with shadows beneath his dark blue eyes. ‘Sorry. Perhaps not tactfully put, but I guess I’m not going to start being diplomatic after twelve years. Is everything all right?’
Mike looks away towards the window, squinting slightly in the way he always does. She once asked him if he had worn glasses as a child, but he looked perplexed and said, ‘No, why?’ with a friendly smile. She now knows it’s just his thoughtful look. She’s been his secretary since she was nineteen and knows more about Mike Turner than he knows himself, or so she jokes. And the truth is that they’ve grown up together, in a way. She’s seen him through his marriage to Olivia and the birth of his girls; he’s been her ‘diamond, the sort of rock I like’ through two marriages, four broken hearts and breast implants that have recently been removed.
‘I didn’t sleep very well,’ he says, still gazing at something Judith can’t see. She busies herself with filing. She knows there’s no point in hurrying him, especially of late.
‘Bloody typist, diarist, dogsbody and counsellor!’ one of the secretaries declared yesterday over lunch, succinctly expanding on what her original job description had omitted. As Judith waits patiently for Mike to embellish on his lack of sleep, she understands what her friend means.
He eventually turns with an awkward smile before sitting at his desk.
‘Turns out that I’m a rotten husband and a rubbish dad, Jude.’ His face is slightly flushed. ‘And there I was, thinking I was perfect!’
Judith smiles and wags a finger. ‘That’s because I’m always telling you you’re perfect. I didn’t think you were listening.’
‘You’ve got it in one. I don’t listen, apparently.’ He puts his head in his hands for a moment and then rubs his eyes. ‘But the truth is they’re right. I haven’t been looking or listening. I’ve taken my eye off the ball.’
‘Trust you to use a football analogy, Mike,’ she laughs. ‘Is there anything I can do to help? Go into goal? Keep score?’
She sits down in the chair opposite him. There’s plenty she’d like to do to help, she thinks affectionately as she strokes her ever-increasing bump, but that would certainly get in the way.
Mike Turner has been at the top of the secretaries’ ‘I wouldn’t kick him out of bed’ list for years. Christmas after Christmas various young hopefuls have tried to snog him at the office party, without success. Judith is certain that he’s completely oblivious to these advances and to his charm. It’s the way his hair is always scruffy from raking his hands through it, she decides, it makes him look both trendy and vulnerable at the same time. Those cheekbones too, a real man with cheekbones! And of course his thoughtful Irish eyes.
‘I must make more of an effort, not just with Olivia but with the girls too.’ He looks at Judith and grins. ‘I would ask you for suggestions, but something tells me that would be cheating.’
‘And so it would,’ she replies, scooping up an armful of files from his muddled desk. Shame, she thinks as she leaves the room. Mike Turner isn’t and will never be the sort of man who would go in for cheating.
Sami strides in late to the site meeting, looking sharp in his new navy suit.
‘You’ve got a smile on your face,’ the quantity surveyor comments. ‘You are one jammy bastard, Richards. Who’s the lucky woman this time?’
Sami puts down his briefcase and places the hard hat on his head, careful not to unsettle his hair. ‘Who, me?’ he grins. ‘Well, since you ask. The wife. Really, Jack, the wife!’
‘You’re joking. I’m lucky if my wife cracks a smile, let alone …’
Sami pulls up the leg of his trousers at the knee, crouches down and spreads out the plans on the dusty concrete floor as he recalls an extremely pleasurable start to the day. Sophie was dead to the world when the alarm woke him at seven. But that’s nothing new. She jacked in her job at the estate agents months ago (‘too early, too boring!’) and he suspects she sleeps in all morning during the week when he isn’t there to cajole her into the land of the living. He’d done his press-ups,