‘My goodness,’ said Sophie. ‘You’ve got a hell of a shiner.’
There followed several moments of mutual dithering. Then Sophie came to her senses.
‘Jonah’s in intensive care but they’re hopeful he’ll recover. My ankle’s much better. We were just about to go and feed the ducks. You’re welcome to join us… if you’re not too busy.’ She inclined her head towards the roses. ‘But we’d better put those in some water first. They’re beautiful.’ She stepped to one side so that he could squeeze in past the pram, wafting that same fresh, spicy, intoxicating aftershave that she imagined must drive his young female students to distraction. It was the perfume of a more sophisticated and urbane man than the scruffy English teacher who had, only yesterday, been thrown into her troubled life. She closed the front door, instantly shutting out the bright August sunshine and casting the hallway, the pram and her disgruntled daughter into semi-darkness. Laura’s protest was instant. Sophie hurried to unstrap her, carried her into the kitchen, inserted her into her chair, glanced up and realised that, yet again, Sam Barnes was standing by her kitchen sink.
‘Do you have a vase or something? Maybe a bucket?’
‘Sam, you have no idea.’ Sophie strode over, pulled open the larder door and stepped inside. She flicked on the light and cast her eyes around the shelves. Sophie’s mother had been a collector and, apart from her house, she had bequeathed to her two daughters many things, most of which Jonah had regarded as useless ‘tat’. Josie had removed her mother’s jewellery and her fine antiquarian library over to Cork but Sophie had stubbornly hung on to her mother’s extensive collection of vases, jugs and teapots, most of which were now crammed into cardboard boxes and packed away in the depths of her spidery larder. She reached up and selected a white pottery vase – plain, hand-thrown, big enough to accommodate her pink roses – returned to the sink and watched Sam Barnes unpeeling the bunched-up cellophane; watched him trying to release the long stems from their thick girdle of florist’s tape. Noticing her gardening scissors beside the kettle, she plucked them up and held them towards him. ‘Here!’
He turned, saw the scissors and threw up his hands in a mock gesture of surrender.
‘Oh, sorry!’ She turned the scissors. Handed them over, watched him cut the tape, half-fill the vase with water, remove an inch or so from the bottom of each of the stems and arrange them in the vase until they were perfect. Then she noticed the sachet of plant food lying beside the discarded cellophane. She held it up. ‘You’ve forgotten something.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Bugger! I reveal myself as a person who rarely receives flowers.’
‘We could pretend it never happened. But it does make things last longer.’
‘Well, then, perhaps I should keep it and add it to my tea.’
She heard herself laugh. ‘I’ve got a mini watering can,’ she said. ‘We can add it with that, without disturbing your beautiful arrangement.’
He smirked. She smirked back. She fetched her watering can, handed it over, studied his expression as he filled it and added the plant food. She recalled her early days with Jonah, the way he had once made her laugh. She couldn’t remember when the laughter turned to smiles, when the smiles faded. Perhaps that’s when you know that your relationship has gone stale. When the laughter dies.
He dispensed the contents of the can into the vase then stroked the foliage back into place. ‘There! Windowsill? Coffee table? Playpen?’
Sophie indicated the kitchen table. ‘Thank you so much. They’re really lovely. Do you fancy that walk in the park? The ducks will be hungry by now.’ That might have been overfamiliar, in fact the whole last twenty minutes might have been overfamiliar but, given the revelations of the last twenty-four hours, she didn’t care. So, it was agreed: the park, the ducks and possibly a coffee at the café beside the boating lake.
* * *
Sophie sipped cappuccino and watched Sam Barnes playing peek-a-boo with Laura and her stuffed clown. He was a really nice guy: he looked after his nephews, made tea, arranged flowers. He fed ducks; fed Laura raspberry yoghurt. It seemed his gallantry knew no bounds. It wasn’t until midway through her second cappuccino that Sophie started to wonder why such a nice guy, probably well into his thirties, was still single. Then the thought struck her: perhaps he wasn’t. She had been so fixated on her own unravelling relationship that she had allowed herself to flirt. Because flirting was what it was. She had allowed herself to flirt with this man, who might just belong to somebody else. He wasn’t wearing a ring, but that’s something men can get away with. It allows them to keep their options open. She was instantly overwhelmed by self-loathing, a state of mind clearly visible from the outside. Sam Barnes stopped peek-a-booing.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing,’ she lied.
‘Are you sure? You’ve gone a bit pale.’
‘No, really. I just suffered a bit of a reality check. I suddenly remembered yesterday.’ She hurried the rest of her coffee. ‘I ought to be getting back. Give Laura her lunch.’
‘OK. Mind if I walk back with you? Make sure you don’t go wandering off in a fugue.’
She smiled. ‘I’m not going to do that. But, yes, please walk back with us. If you have the time.’ She frowned. ‘How did you get here today? Without your bike.’
‘Caught a train. It’s still possible – if you have a strong constitution and you don’t need to be anywhere in a hurry.’
‘Oh, where do you live?’
‘In my brother’s attic. This side of Dorking.’
* * *
They strolled back at a leisurely enough pace, Sam with his hands in his pockets, Sophie pushing the pram. She was desperate to interrogate him about his possible wife-stroke-partner but asking him outright would be completely unacceptable.
‘Are you married?’
He laughed. ‘What?’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. Sometimes I think I’m thinking something and then I hear it coming straight out of my mouth. I’m really sorry. It was rude. And…’
‘No, I’m not. I nearly was. But it all went horribly wrong. I’m still smarting about it.’
‘Oh. When did that happen?’
‘About eleven years ago.’
Sophie pulled the pram to a halt. ‘Eleven years!’
‘Once bitten, et cetera.’
‘But you’ve got a girlfriend?’
‘Nope. No significant other half. As I said, once bitten…’
Sophie’s head teemed with conflicting sentiments: eleven years was a ridiculous amount of time to nurture a lost romance; he should move on; it was terrible that such a lovely human being had no one; she was delighted he had no one… what? Why was her mind thinking that? ‘I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you anything as personal as that.’
‘That’s OK. By now I can almost talk about it without weeping. We’re nearly there. I’ll help you inside. The Princess seems to have fallen asleep.’
‘Have you got to get back? For your nephews?’