Confessions Page 8

  Fancy a drink tonight? it had said.

  Sounds good. Nine o’clock at the Metropolitan? she had quickly replied.

  Now feeling a little hot under the collar, Nat tottered towards the brightly lit corner building. Her response had been sent without too much thought, but once it had whooshed away, she’d had second thoughts. Max still had his girlfriend, right? It wasn’t some sort of date, surely? An absurd idea, of course. She was older than him and he didn’t seem to be in short supply of admirers. Though there had been that sizzle of attraction last year… If that night had panned out differently, who knows? But right now Nat wasn’t on the market, not for him or any other bloody man. And if he harboured ideas in that direction, he’d soon be disabused.

  The pub was already hot and heaving, the music just a little too loud. She glanced around to spot her quarries. Both playing with their beer mats, they stood either end of the bar. She looked from Joshim to Max and laughed; a ménage à trois, perhaps? They were both attractive men, with quiffed hairstyles as it happened, but the pretty, chiselled slimmer one was gay and the other more chunky, private-school sort wasn’t, in truth, her type. She had composed a text telling them both it would be a threesome tonight, but she didn’t want it to sound as though she’d invited one as a chaperone because she didn’t like the other – or whatever else they might have deduced – so she’d binned it. She now shook her head. Get a grip, Natalie! Stop over-analysing and worrying; chill out and have fun.

  She gave Joshim a tight hug, then called over to Max. ‘Max, this is Joshim. He’s…’ She pictured Gavin, but manfully resisted his usual ‘the only gay in the CPS’ quip in his honour. ‘He’s a pal from law college. He works for the Crown Prosecution Service, so watch your Ps and Qs. Joshim, this is my colleague–’

  ‘And friend.’

  ‘And my work friend, Max. Well, last week’s employment, anyway.’ She snorted. ‘I feel as though I’ve been away forever. Right, what are you two drinking?’

  The men found a corner table. Though it took longer at the bar than she liked, Nat finally returned with the booze.

  ‘Nearly had a fist fight,’ she commented.

  Joshim smiled. ‘Any particular reason?’

  ‘Men,’ she replied.

  ‘God, not those again.’

  ‘Yup. The ones who seem to think it’s okay to push in.’ It was fine; she’d put the arrogant trio right. ‘So what were you talking about?’

  ‘The boss,’ Max replied.

  Oh hell; he was talking about Wes. Why, oh why did she ask? ‘Well, I’m pleased to say I don’t have one,’ she said, trying to change the subject. ‘Cheers!’

  ‘Yeah, Wesley has barely spoken to anyone this week,’ Max continued. ‘He’s had a face like thunder, expecting us to all be telepathic and snapping when we aren’t. Of course Emilia thinks it’s all to do with her.’ He turned to Joshim. ‘Why do women do that?’ He mimicked Emilia’s high southern voice. ‘“I don’t think he likes me, guys. What did I do wrong? Oh golly, is he angry with me?”’

  Nat cleared her throat loudly. ‘Women? Just this generic clump of–’

  ‘I’m not counting you, Nat.’ Max snorted. ‘Besides, it’s probably your fault.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Joshim said, his gossip radar on high alert. ‘Because Nat’s not in the office the godlike Wes Hughes is Mr Moody.’

  Knowing exactly what was coming, Nat tried to intervene quickly, but Joshim had already leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘You do know Wes and Nat were an item at law school, don’t you, Max?’

  ‘No we weren’t, Joshim. He was dating Andrea and then he married her. End of.’

  Joshim’s almond eyes glowed with mischief. ‘The shag hag or the Cling-on as she was known. Little did we know the full extent of her talents…’

  Nat wasn’t sure how much everyone in the office knew about the whole Andrea saga. She threw back her glass of fizz. ‘Your round, I think, Joshim,’ she said pointedly, but he didn’t move. Instead he lifted his dark eyebrows.

  ‘Just like you weren’t…’ He made ironic speech marks with his fingers. ‘“Going out” with Jose, I suppose?’

  ‘I wasn’t seeing either of them, Joshim.’

  Aware of Max’s head snapping from her to Joshim like a Wimbledon spectator, she decided on a diversionary tack. She took Joshim’s hand, saying, ‘Why would I consider anyone else when I was so in love with you?’

  ‘Good try, Bach,’ he said, standing and collecting the glasses. ‘As stunning as I was, Max, she never even noticed me. However, when Wes Hughes sauntered into the room…’

  Expecting an inquisition, Nat held her breath as she turned to Max, but he was looking vacantly over her shoulder, clearly miles away. Ah, definitely girlfriend trouble. What was she called? That’s right, Caz.

  ‘So what’s your excuse?’ she asked.

  He frowned. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘How come you’re here on a Saturday night and not with Caz?’

  He snorted. ‘Sadly, I couldn’t tonight. I had to meet my boss to discuss urgent developments on a file…’

  Nat groaned inwardly. She hated people telling fibs. Well, lying, in fact. But in truth, everyone did it. She didn’t comment but waited for him to elaborate.

  He raked a hand through his hair and looked down at the table. ‘I should never have moved in with her, Nat,’ he blurted, tumbling over his words. ‘I can’t breathe. She virtually takes notes when I get home: who I’ve seen, what I’ve done, what I ate for my bloody lunch. Completely fucking claustrophobic. I’m not sure I can do it a moment longer.’ He finally made eye contact. ‘What would you do?’

  Nat took a breath. Wow. She didn’t know they lived together. She’d clearly missed that. And maybe the poor woman was just interested in his life. Still, he did look pretty stressed and unhappy. ‘If it’s really that bad, I guess you could always tell her it isn’t working and move out.’

  He glanced at Joshim, approaching with the drinks. ‘If only,’ he replied hurriedly. ‘I can’t, she won’t let me. Basically blackmail, Nat. And bad bloody timing. Wesley has given me the nod for partnership in April. Brilliant news, yeah? But Caz has ammo that will put it at risk. She’s made it quite clear that she’s willing to use it…’

  12

  Baggage

  Nat listened to the church bells as she fluffed up the lounge cushions. She’d fallen asleep the moment her head touched the pillow last night and hadn’t woken up until eleven. Since then she’d thought of nothing other than Wes, Catherine and bloody Jack Goldman. The treacherous bastards had offered Max a partnership. She had worked extremely hard for ten long years at Goldman Law before she left for Mallorca, and when she came back she’d cleared up everyone’s mess, the three of theirs in particular. Yet they hadn’t offered one to her; they’d turned to golden-boy Max who was seven years less qualified than her. Even if one took off the five-year hiatus, she still had his better by two.

  The patting turned to battering as she focused her anger on Jack. ‘Natalie has the sharpest mind I know,’ was his opening whenever he introduced her to a new client. And yet she wasn’t sharp enough to be offered a bloody promotion.

  Observed by the cats, she slumped down on the sofa. The car, of course. The salve of a company vehicle. So that’s what the Mercedes had been all about. She wiped away a tear of frustration. But at least that was something, some recognition from Jack. Which left Wesley and Catherine. Cool. Bloody. Catherine. Perhaps they’d rekindled their lonely hearts club in the office flat. Maybe she should mention it to Jack: ‘Did you know your perfect wife had a mutual flaming need with Wesley for a year?’

  She folded her arms, then thumped them to her chest for good measure. Catching her reflection in the window, she almost laughed. Oh God, she was acting like a sulky child. Of course she wouldn’t breach a confidence; she never did. And it wasn’t Max’s fault. He’d done a fairly long stint at Goldman Law and he deserved the recognition. It was her own shortcoming; almost on a whim s
he’d jacked in her career to follow her boyfriend. It sounded so pathetic and meek; nothing like her old feminist self. Why the hell did she do it? She still hadn’t quite worked it out. Old-fashioned need, probably. She’d grown so used to Jose’s obsessive love that its absence left a gaping hole and she’d floundered without it.

  Pathetic woman or what? She snorted loudly. Perhaps everything came back to Jose in the end. He’d glued himself to her back at law school and despite her efforts over the years to detach herself from him, he’d never gone away. She hadn’t set eyes on the man for well over six months, yet his sister was due, all the way from Liverpool, in an hour and twenty minutes. The reason? A mystery she could do without, especially with a hangover from hell.

  She shook her head to test it. She, Max and Joshim had gone dancing in some dodgy basement bar in Withington after the pub last night; they’d moved on to snakebite cocktails which had tasted almost nice after the third. She smiled a little at the memory. How had the two men fared after she left? Despite knowing Max was rugger-bugger straight, Joshim was clearly smitten, and Max was so drunk he’d struggled to cook up a reason why he’d be home so late. She pictured them waking up in the same bed. A possibility? From Max’s terror, it might have been easier to fall for Joshim’s charms than face his girlfriend’s interrogation. Stranger things had happened.

  Wondering what had become of her umbrella, Nat swigged back more water. She’d taken two painkillers and the headache seemed to be receding, but the house was too quiet; it would bring on gloomy thoughts if she didn’t do something productive. Her mum was out, the slip-free trip yesterday having chivvied her into action. She usually met Barbara every third Sunday to go to their old church in Oldham, but she was visiting her in hospital instead.

  Nat squinted through the bay. The pavements were still gritty, but dry. Why the hell not? If the backstabber Wes Hughes managed seven kilometres in fifty minutes each weekend, surely she could manage three?

  The jog towards the gardens was slow, but at least Nat didn’t collapse before she’d reached the entrance. The wind behind pushed her on, but memories of last Sunday morning wafted back. Lazy, tender lovemaking with Wes; through his lips and his hands, she’d felt sure of his love. How had that evaporated so easily? ‘Fair enough,’ he’d said the other day. Where was the passion, the fight to keep her? It wasn’t there. The same as his promises. Like the snow, they’d disappeared. She just had to move on.

  The air was damp, the trees stark, but the grass sparkled as she paced the hard path around the boundaries. The park was surprisingly busy – other runners, lovers hand in hand, dogs taking their owners for a walk. And so many happy families: small children seemed to be everywhere, in papooses, on shoulders, in prams. Zipped up in thick coats, wearing mittens and hats, their noses like cherries.

  She pictured Gavin’s kids in similar attire yesterday. His two older boys had seemed fine, darting around the perimeter of the lake, then climbing an ancient oak tree, but little Cameron had clutched on to her and cried. ‘I want Ruthie, I want Ruthie.’ It had brought tears to her eyes, her mum’s too.

  Nat continued to run steadily, her mind flitting as she grinned at the astonishing variety of canine. A veritable international feast: French bulldog, German shepherd, English springer spaniel. Then there were the mixed breeds: cocks, poos and doodles. Some people stopped to smile at babies, but with her it was dogs, big ones and small, fluffy or smooth, bounding blithely with wet noses and joie de vivre.

  And the thought spreading through all the others as she strode: Issa Harrow was due soon. What on earth did she want?

  The drizzle had started on Nat’s last lap of the park, developing into a heavy shower by the time she reached Cheadle High Street. Of course she’d tempted fate: ‘The weather is fine, so is life, really. Just one more circuit, you can do it, girl,’ she’d said to herself.

  So much for positivity. Now she was soaked, knackered and the brain rattle was back. She had no energy left, and though her tracksuit hood was up, she couldn’t get any wetter.

  Fifty metres from her house, she finally looked up from the soggy, pinpricked pavement. Oh hell. Its driver’s door open, a blue car was parked behind hers. An umbrella shot out, followed by Isabella.

  Nat found herself trotting through the deluge. ‘God, I’m sorry,’ she called. ‘I lost track of the time.’

  Issa turned. ‘Don’t worry, I’m early.’ Clearly taking in Nat’s drowned rat appearance, she nodded to the still-open door. ‘Should we wait in the car until you’ve…?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Nat replied, searching her pockets.

  Oh God, ‘we’. She’d supposed her visitor would be Issa, alone. Oh God, what the hell?

  Too anxious to look at the passenger, Nat turned to the house. Her hands numb with cold, she fumbled with the key, scrabbling to insert it in the lock. The portal finally opened with a blast of hot air. ‘Come on in. Please take a seat.’ She made for the stairs. ‘I’ll be two ticks; I’ll just grab a towel.’

  Nat perched on her bed. She hadn’t expected to feel so heart-pumping nervous, so alarmed. She tried to peel off her wet running kit hurriedly, but it took moments to undo the stuck hoody zip, then struggle to yank the soaking vest off her head. Drying herself quickly, she pulled a brush through her hair, then donned a clean jumper and leggings.

  It was time to face the music. Was Mrs Harrow and her sharply set shoulders downstairs? Even worse, was it Jose? Standing tall, she breathed deeply. Come on, Natalie! She could do this and see it through.

  Issa Harrow was perched on the armchair. Perhaps a little blonder these days, but with her angular face, chestnut eyes and high cheekbones, she looked remarkably like her brother. Nat cast her eyes to the second seat and the sofa. Poppy cat was curled up on one, her brother, Lewie, stretched out on the other. Her gaze finally rested on the floor. The ‘we’ was asleep in a car seat: a chubby, fair-haired baby dressed in blue.

  ‘Oh, Issa, I didn’t know. Congratulations! A boy?’

  She nodded, but didn’t smile. Her pale face was tense. ‘Yes. He’s called Carlos.’

  Stuck for words, Nat stared at the tiny tot. Issa had a beautiful child, but didn’t appear remotely like the happy parents in the park. ‘You kept up the Spanish name tradition,’ she commented for something to say.

  Issa snorted. ‘As though Mum would have allowed anything else.’

  She still had a mild Liverpudlian twang, but her bubbly personality appeared to be missing today. Where would this strange reunion go? Nat took a breath. ‘I’ll make us a drink. Coffee, tea, cocoa, or something cold?’

  ‘A cup of tea would be good, thanks.’

  ‘Me too. Come on through.’

  They sat at the kitchen table, both clutching their drinks but saying little. Nat eventually chuckled. ‘I think we’re as nervous as each other. Whatever you need to say…’ She thought of Gavin Savage and smiled. ‘Just shoot,’ she said.

  Issa’s lips finally twitched. In all the years Nat had known Jose, he’d had no interest in football, either watching or playing, but Issa was a keen Liverpool FC supporter.

  ‘I always liked you and your easy humour,’ she said. ‘Which is why I’m here. You’re a nice person.’ She lifted her chin. ‘And a solicitor.’

  Nat spread her hands, surprised but mightily relieved. ‘That’s fine. You can tell me anything. It’s all confidential.’

  Issa looked at the baby, still asleep in his seat. ‘So,’ she began, swallowing, ‘I met JP at Harrow’s retirement party just over a year ago–’

  Issa and Jose’s father had always been known as ‘Harrow’, but ‘JP’ didn’t ring any bells.

  ‘JP?’ Nat asked.

  ‘Sorry, JP is Carlos’s dad, John Paul.’ She glanced at Nat briefly. ‘Harrow had just stepped down as head teacher after his twenty-five-year stint. They had a big event at the school. So many people came: former pupils, staff, Oxbridge success stories, chief executives, actors, published authors. People stood up an
d gave speeches about what a difference he’d made to their lives. It was fantastic, heart-warming stuff.’

  Nat nodded, thinking back to Mallorca. Yes, she recalled Harrow retiring in his ‘silver jubilee’ year. Jose had been reluctant to trek all the way to Liverpool, but she’d persuaded him to go home for the celebration. She would have gone too had Hugo been available to cover at ‘Havana’ that weekend. Indeed, she was disappointed not to go; she’d always liked Harrow. Big-hearted, gregarious and caring, he was exactly the father she would have chosen. Her mental image of him was not unlike Gavin Savage. Tall and solid, a former military man, everyone from the family to his pupils and school staff called him by his surname.

  ‘JP was… is… different…’ Issa smiled wryly. ‘Not my usual sort. I’m sure you’ll remember them. Less louty, more introspective, you might say. Not even a footie fan, let alone a Red. Ironically a bit like Jose.’

  Though the mention of her ex’s name made her flinch, Nat remembered. Issa had a series of opinionated, die-hard Liverpool-supporting boyfriends her mother couldn’t stand. As for Jose, his poetical but uptight sensitivity had driven his sister nuts at times. Nat understood that. Despite his law degree, Jose hadn’t held down a job until his late twenties; he was still ‘trying to find himself’ in his early thirties. He’d seemed to have settled down in Mallorca, though.

  Nat pushed that particular rug-pulling realisation away. Yes, the Harrow family had always felt severed between Issa and her personable dad, Jose and their severe Spanish mum.

  Issa abruptly covered her face. ‘I suppose I should’ve known. A handsome and loving forty-six-year-old man without baggage. They don’t exist, do they?’