Page 63 of The Work Husband

There was one evening when I was fourteen that I would never forget. Mum had arranged to meet friends for dinner because it was Wednesday, the night I usually spent at Dad’s place. In an uncharacteristically good mood, glammed up for her evening out, Mum had walked me to the Tube station and kissed me goodbye.

The journey was familiar – I did it on my own regularly – but long, all the way across London from Queensway to Loughton. I settled down with my book and waited while stop after stop passed, until at last it was time to get off the train and make my way to Dad’s house, a ten-minute walk from the station.

But when I knocked on the door of his house, there was no reply. I had no key, although I did have a mobile phone – not that that helped me because neither of my parents were answering theirs.

I didn’t know what to do. It was November and already dark, and the quiet suburban street where Dad lived seemed suddenly menacing. I waited, shivering, for ten minutes and then retraced my steps to the station, got back on the Central line and did the journey in reverse. It was only when I arrived back at Mum’s flat that I remembered I had no key for that either – Mum had mislaid hers a few days before and borrowed mine, saying I would be at Dad’s place so wouldn’t need it, and she would be home when I got back after school on Friday.

Except I was back two days early, and she was out. Again, both my parents’ phones went unanswered. So I did the only thing I could think of and got back on the Tube and returned to Loughton. Still no one home; still no one answering their phones. I returned to Queensway – same result.

It was gone eleven when I arrived at Loughton for the third time. This time, Dad answered the door.

‘What the hell are you doing here, Georgia?’

I told him. By this stage I was crying, cold, hungry and badly frightened – I’d imagined spending the whole night shuttling from east to west like some kind of human ping-pong ball until the Tubes stopped running, and I had no idea what I’d do then. But Dad’s relief that I was okay was overshadowed by his rage at Mum.

The row they had that night was the worst they’d had since their divorce. Each blamed the other; I suspected the one thing that united them was that they also blamed me.

After that, I learned never to leave either home without the keys to both. But also, after that, neither place ever truly felt like a home.

‘We’re here.’ Ben’s voice jerked me from the remote misery of the past to the more real, pressing crisis unfolding in the present.

The two of us clambered out of the taxi, and Ben shouldered the overnight bag.

‘It’s going to be okay,’ I said, sensing his brief, anxious hesitation. ‘Come on – let’s go in and see what’s what.’

My heart was pounding as we entered the hospital. Ben knew which way to go, so I followed him along a maze of corridors, into a lift and then along more corridors, each step taking us closer to knowing whether we would find Arthur even more critically ill, recovering or just the same.

At last, we reached a door where Ben stopped. He squared his shoulders and took a deep breath before he reached out a hand and pushed it open.

Seconds later, Molly was in his arms, sobbing as if she would never be able to stop.

THIRTY-TWO

‘Sun’s over the yardarm,’ Jamie said at three o’clock the following afternoon. ‘Jasper’s in Edinburgh. I’ve got no meetings. So what are we waiting for?’

‘What are you suggesting?’ I asked.

‘Skiving off to Birch Bar, obviously.’

‘We can’t do that.’

‘Why not? You worried we’ll get caught and given a detention?’

‘No, but…’

The truth was, I was tempted. Most of our clients were already on holiday. The Turkish oligarch’s son and his soon-to-be fiancée weren’t arriving until next week, and anyway all the plans for their visit were in place. Zahra’s uncle and his wife were in Riyadh. No one was likely to contact me, and if they did, I’d have my phone on me.

I’d basically be working…

Besides, I was exhausted after a night of zero sleep sitting in a hard plastic chair in the hospital. I’d achieved very little that morning, even sitting dutifully at my desk. I looked longingly at the bright sunshine and blue sky outside the office window.

‘Go on then – let’s do it,’ I said.

‘I knew I could count on you.’ Before he’d even finished speaking, Jamie was on his feet, tucking his phone into his pocket.

Fifteen minutes later, we were at a table in the familiar surroundings of Birch Bar – not that I wanted to think too much about my previous visit there when we’d tried to trick Sam into thinking something was happening between me and Jamie. I had a spicy mezcal margarita, and Jamie had a negroni, and I filled him in more on the events of the previous night.

‘So it looks like Arthur’s going to be okay,’ I told him. ‘When we got to the hospital, they’d just told Molly he was responding to the antibiotics and his temperature was dropping. She was in absolute bits, poor thing. Ben too. I stayed there with them until three in the morning, then they made me go home to get a bit of rest.’