in thought again – then comes to. ‘And so … not an achievement, my dear.’ He gives me a mild, kind smile. ‘Rather, a privilege.’
I stare back at him, feeling choked up. John’s hands are trembling as he rearranges his pots. He knocks one over, then rights it, and I can tell he doesn’t quite know what he’s doing. I recall Owen just now, pale and shrunken, the tube in his nose, and have a sudden, horrible fear that it’s bad, really bad.
On impulse I grab John’s shaky hands and hold them in mine till they’re still.
‘If you ever want company,’ I say. ‘Help. Lifts in the car. Anything. We’re here.’
He nods and squeezes my hands. And we go back into the house, and I make two cups of tea, because that’s something else I can do. And as I leave, promising to return tomorrow, all I can think is: Dan. I need to talk to Dan. I need to communicate. Even if he’s still in Devon. Even if he has no signal. Even if it’s a one-sided conversation.
As I get inside our house I’m already reaching for the phone. I dial his number, sinking down on to the bottom step of the stairs, desperate to let him know, desperate to make him understand … what?
‘Dan,’ I say as the phone beeps. ‘It’s me. And I’m so sorry.’ I swallow, my throat all lumpy. ‘I just … I wish … I just …’
Oh God. Terrible. Why am I so bloody inarticulate? John, with all his worries, manages to sound like some elegiac poet, whereas I flounder around like an idiot. I click off, dial again and start another voicemail.
‘Dan.’ I swallow the lumps down. ‘It’s me. And I just called to say …’ No. I sound like Stevie Wonder. Bad. I click off and try again.
‘Dan, it’s me. I mean, you knew that, right? Because you saw Sylvie pop up on your screen. Which means you’re listening to a message from me. Which I suppose is a good sign …’
What am I going on about? I click off before I can sound any more like a rambling moron and dial a fourth time.
‘Dan. Please ignore all those other messages. Sorry. I don’t know what I was trying to say. What I am trying to say is …’ I pause, trying to untangle my thoughts. ‘Well. I suppose it’s that all I can think about is you. Where you are. What you’re doing. What you’re thinking. Because I have no idea any more. None.’ My voice wobbles and I take a few seconds to calm myself. ‘It’s ironic, I guess, because I used to think I knew you too well. But now …’ A tear suddenly runs down my cheek. ‘Anyway. Above all, Dan … and I don’t know if you’re even still listening … but above all, I wanted to say …’
The door opens and I’m so startled, I drop my phone in shock, thinking, Dan? Dan?
But it’s Karen, wearing sneakers and earbuds and her cycling backpack.
‘Oh, hi,’ she says, looking surprised to see me sitting on the stairs. ‘I forgot my iPad. Shit, Sylvie, your hair.’
‘Yes. My hair.’ I peer at her in confusion. ‘But wait, aren’t you supposed to be with the girls?’
‘Dan’s with them,’ she says casually – then, at my reaction, her expression changes. ‘Oh. Wasn’t I supposed to say? He just turned up and said he’d do the party.’
‘Dan’s here?’ My heart is thudding so hard, I can hardly breathe. ‘He’s here? Where? Where?’
‘Battersea Park,’ says Karen, eyeing me weirdly. ‘Climb On? You know, the climbing place?’
My legs are already moving. I’m scrambling to my feet. I need to get there.
SEVENTEEN
Battersea Park is one of the reasons we like south-west London. It’s an amazing resource – huge and green and full of activities. It’s a fine evening as I reach the gates and people are out in force enjoying themselves. They’re strolling, cycling, rollerblading, riding recumbent bikes and hitting distant tennis balls. Everyone’s relaxed and smiling at each other. But not me. I’m desperate. I’m not smiling. I’m a woman on a mission.
I don’t know what’s propelling me – some marriage-in-crisis superpower maybe, that causes all your muscles to explode in strength? But somehow I’m speeding along, past all the joggers, tottering in my black high heels, panting and red-faced. My lungs are on fire and there’s a blister on my heel, but the more it hurts, the harder I run. I don’t know what