Chances Page 7

  ‘Surely there must be someone else …’

  Even I could hear the resignation in my voice. Tina pounced on it.

  ‘You’d be in the canteen during the talk, so you wouldn’t see or hear him,’ she said. ‘And I’d fetch him a cup of tea myself, so he wouldn’t come anywhere near you.’ She reached out and rubbed my arm. ‘I know you didn’t want to be here, but I have to make it work tonight. Jo has already been dropping hints about my Performance Management next term. Please help.’

  I nodded. What else could I do? Tina had been a good friend to me over the years, and had saved my sanity on more occasions than I could remember. Friendship trumped personal inclination every time.

  It wasn’t a taxing job to set out the tea things; I’d done it countless times before. But when all the cups and saucers were set out, the biscuits displayed on plates and the ‘50p per cup’ sign prominently displayed, I still had thirty minutes to kill before the first of the thirsty hordes were likely to descend. I messed around with my phone for a while, checked my emails, replied to a text from Rich and generally did everything I could to distract myself from what was going on in the hall.

  I straightened a teacup and looked critically at the display. Were there enough cups? There were more in the cupboard that I had judged unnecessary – but what if my prejudice was underestimating the popularity of this event? What if I let Tina down?

  It was a matter of seconds between the thought creeping into my head and my feet carrying me to the door of the hall. Standing to one side, I peered through the glass panel, focusing only on the rows of chairs stretching back down the length of the hall. It was far busier than I had expected, with the rows occupied to at least halfway; I would need more teacups after all.

  I turned away and was about to return to the canteen when a familiar burst of laughter stopped me in my tracks, the sound slinking into my reluctant ears and pinning me to where I stood. I tried to ignore it, but his voice carried through the door as he spoke about the Viking occupation of Lancashire and the Cuerdale Hoard that had been found by workmen repairing the banks of the River Ribble near Preston in 1840; it was one of the largest Viking silver hoards ever found, and we had once been to see it at the British Museum. The Vikings had always been Paddy’s favourite era, and his genuine enthusiasm was clear, to me at least; the Irish accent dimmed, and he sounded less like the TV star and more like the boy I had known. I closed my eyes and listened.

  The scrape of a chair along the wooden floor brought me to my senses, and I dashed back downstairs, my heart pounding with renewed fascination about archaeology, and frustration that Paddy had helped inspire it. I set out more cups, filled the urns with tea and coffee, and prepared to lurk at the back of the room, out of sight.

  It wasn’t long before the audience arrived, laughing and smiling as if they’d had a good time – although the realisation that they had to pay for refreshments wiped a few of the smiles away. I sensed rather than saw Paddy’s arrival; I was well hidden behind a group of parents, and a gaggle of Year 9s who thought they could pilfer biscuits without me noticing. But the sound in the room changed when he walked in: conversations dimmed; feet shuffled as people turned to get a better look. The air was thick with the consciousness of his presence, and with anticipation of who he might talk to.

  It was sickening. All this, because he had appeared on television, and was objectively what some might consider handsome? I thrust a teacup into a waiting hand, sloshing the contents onto the saucer as I seethed at the shallowness of today’s society. And then I smiled to myself for sounding more like someone of Gran’s age than my own, and as I looked across the room, Paddy caught my eye and returned my smile.

  Damn the man! He was as bad as the Year 9s, pilfering things that weren’t meant for him. I focused on dispensing refreshments again, but the queue was drying up, and at 50p per cup, no one was coming back for seconds. I felt like a sitting duck behind my table as the crowd thinned around me. Spotting that Jo Blair was engaged in earnest conversation with a governor, I grabbed the almost-empty urn of tea and carried it into the kitchen, with the spurious intention of filling it up while hiding for as long as I could.

  ‘Eve?’

  My hand slipped, and scalding water splashed over it, making me yelp. Paddy was at my side at once, switching on the cold tap and holding my arm so that the cold water ran over the back of my hand. As soon as the pain was replaced by a heavy numbness, I shook my arm free.

  ‘I can manage.’

  ‘You should leave it under for fifteen minutes.’

  ‘I am aware of that. I’m one of the school’s designated first aiders.’

  I didn’t know why I added that. If we were going to trade achievements since our time together, it was hardly going to trump anything he could offer.

  ‘Well done,’ he said, and I glanced up, expecting sarcasm, but his smile appeared genuine. But then it always did. A line from Caitlyn’s A-level Shakespeare text floated into my head: ‘that one may smile, and smile, and be a villain.’ It summed up Paddy perfectly.

  ‘You’re not supposed to be in here,’ I said, turning off the tap and drying my hand on a paper towel. I had no intention of being trapped here for fifteen minutes. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Did you come and hear the talk?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’ I threw the paper towel in the bin. ‘Don’t you have enough adoring fans out there? Are you so desperate for praise that you have to follow people, hoping for a bit of flattery?’

  ‘I don’t give a stuff about adoring fans. None of that matters.’

  ‘Really? Is it just the money you care about, then?’ I said. ‘Something must have motivated you to take the part in Celebrity Speed Dating, as it certainly can’t have been for the critical acclaim.’

  Caitlyn had been hooked on the show, and I’d been unlucky enough to catch a few minutes of it – fortunately not a segment featuring Paddy. It had been one of the worst things I’d ever seen on television, and had picked up scathing reviews – so of course, it had been a huge ratings hit.

  ‘Sure I did it for the money. I’m not ashamed of that.’

  The old Paddy would have been, the Paddy I thought I’d known: he was passionate about his subject – devoted to it, as I knew to my cost – and wouldn’t have risked degrading it with tawdry TV shows. Briefly, I wondered what had happened to wreak the change, but I soon let the thought slip away. I had better things to do than waste a second of my time on Paddy Friel.

  ‘Did you get my postcard?’

  ‘Yes. It went straight in the recycling bin. We have nothing to talk about. I made that perfectly clear before. You were happy enough to leave me alone once, when it suited you. Why can’t you leave me alone now, when it suits me?’

  Paddy leant against the stainless steel work surfaces, his hands stuffed in his pockets.

  ‘There are things we need to talk about,’ he said. ‘Important things. Don’t be like this. I know this bitterness isn’t you. What’s happened to you?’

  My mouth and my eyes gaped wide. Was he criticising me? Who had made me bitter? Why had I ended up this way? He knew nothing about me, about who I was now.

  ‘Life happened,’ I said – no doubt in a bitter fashion. ‘It doesn’t always go the way you want it to.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t.’ Something in his face, in his voice as he said that, caught my attention – something undoubtedly real. But before I could process that, my second least favourite voice cut through the kitchen.

  ‘Eve? What are you doing? Why have you left the tea money unattended?’

  Jo Blair stopped when she noticed Paddy, and her frown quickly changed to a smile.

  ‘Mr Friel! Have you lost your way? Eve, couldn’t you have shown him where to go?’

  ‘I tried.’

  Paddy’s eyes glittered with amusement from behind Jo’s back, and all at once, I remembered how different things had once been between us. How laughter had bound us together; how he had acted the clown,
never satisfied until I collapsed, clutching the stitch in my side; how I had stored up stories from my day, exaggerating the absurdities in the hope of hearing his laughter; how our radar for comedy had been so finely attuned that it had often taken only one shared glance to set us both off. I had never experienced that with anyone else. It felt like I hadn’t laughed like that in years. Seventeen years, if I was inclined to count.

  ‘Hurry up with the tea,’ Jo said, oblivious to the atmosphere in the kitchen. ‘There’s time to sell a few more cups.’

  I nodded and picked up the urn, but before I could take a step, Paddy removed it from my grasp.

  ‘Watch your hand,’ he said.

  He headed towards the kitchen door, and I hurried after him, with Jo Blair close on my heels. And as we made our procession into the canteen, I took a moment to analyse my feelings. Paddy’s condemnation had been uncomfortable and unarguable. I did sound bitter, and it wasn’t me. It had been my head talking, not my heart. When I looked there, I found no bitterness. I had hated Paddy once, but somewhere over the years it had gone, leaving mere indifference behind. Or not quite indifference. As I had been reminded so recently, there had been good times between us. The best, I had thought back then. Dig far enough down through the years, and there was a layer of our relationship where things had been perfect. Despite what had happened afterwards, I could never forget that. With my training, I should know better than to think that history could ever be irrelevant.

  Paddy put the urn down on the table. I spotted Tina across the room, looking at me with concern. I shook my head at her. I didn’t need rescuing. It was time to face up to this.

  ‘What is it you want to talk about?’ I called after Paddy, as he started to wander away. He turned back.

  ‘Not here,’ he said, gesturing round. The guests had started to leave, but too many remained, hovering in the hope of a moment with Paddy. ‘Are you free later?’

  ‘Not tonight.’ It was too soon. I needed time to prepare for this.

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘I’m working.’

  ‘Friday? Term will have ended, won’t it?’

  I nodded. ‘But you won’t be here …’

  ‘I’m staying at The White Hart tonight. I can extend my stay.’

  ‘There’s no need to do that …’

  ‘There is. It’s important. Meet me for lunch on Friday. Please, Eve.’

  Was I a fool to agree? Maybe. Maybe I had always been a fool where Paddy was concerned. But when he looked at me with the same expression of wordless appeal that I had fallen for hundreds of times before, I couldn’t resist now any more than I had then. I nodded again, unable to say the words, and Paddy smiled and walked away.

  Chapter 8

  Friday was the first day of the Easter holidays, but there was no chance of a lie-in. Before I had been daft enough to agree to meet Paddy for lunch, I had already arranged to call at Winston’s house to have our first meeting about The Chestnuts fundraising campaign. With the sponsored walk only weeks away, there was no time to lose in starting the preparations.

  It was a fine day, with a definite hint of spring in the air, and I walked through the centre of Inglebridge, enjoying seeing the morning sights I usually missed during term time: the shopkeepers setting out their signs on the pavements; the delivery drivers whistling as they dropped off their supplies; the volunteer litter-pickers scouring the streets as eagerly as treasure hunters. White vans stood abandoned on the double yellow lines outside the Pepperpot Café as the drivers queued for one of Merry’s irresistible sausage butties; Mr Long, the oldest newspaper boy in town, cycled past on his way back to the newsagent’s with his empty bag; old Mrs Davenport shuffled towards the kitchen gadget shop, where she and her Pekingese would sit and natter for a good hour.

  I soaked up all the reminders of why I loved this little town, and they combined with the prospect of two weeks free of Jo Blair to add a spring to my step, despite the looming audience with Paddy.

  Winston lived in one of the new houses that had been built on a field on the far side of town a couple of years ago. The plans had caused outrage and sparked angry protests at the time – quite an uproar for such a peaceful town – but already the houses had been absorbed into the fabric of the place and no one batted an eyelid about them. I quite liked them – they had been clad in stone, with at least some thought as to what would fit in with the area – and Winston’s was in one of the best spots, overlooking more fields – although it could never match my view of Winlow Hill.

  Winston opened the door and we exchanged an awkward hello; it somehow seemed entirely different to meet as real people rather than as hot and sweaty runners wearing Lycra. He led me through to an open-plan living room, where a baby lay on a play mat in the centre of the room.

  I stepped carefully around the plastic toys and bricks that littered the carpet.

  ‘Sorry about the mess,’ Winston said, waving his arm cheerfully to encompass the whole room, but making no effort to clear my path. ‘You know what it’s like with babies!’

  I smiled and nodded, because I’d found over the years that it was the easiest way. No one wanted to hear the complicated truth: that I didn’t know what it was like; I was a mother who had no experience of babies. People didn’t tend to like hearing that my sister had died from taking drugs, as if the facts of her death tainted me too; as if our whole family were tarnished by our failure to stop her.

  ‘Tea?’ Winston asked, and as he headed to the kitchen area to make it, I moved aside a pile of children’s books to make room to sit on the sofa. They were rather advanced books for the tiny bundle lying on the floor. I remembered reading some of them to Caitlyn. She had snuggled on my knee, sucking her thumb as I read to her, and I had battled with the feelings that still plagued me now; love and guilt made exquisitely uncomfortable bedfellows.

  ‘Feel free to borrow it, if you’re desperate to know how the story ends.’ Winston grinned as he came back with two mugs of tea and caught me engrossed in Where are you, Blue Kangaroo?

  ‘No need.’ I laughed. ‘I still remember every word. Caitlyn loved these books.’

  ‘I don’t think Mabel appreciates them yet.’ Winston handed me a mug. ‘We’re convinced she’s a genius all the same.’

  Winston settled down in the chair opposite me and picked up the laptop that was lying on the coffee table at his side.

  ‘How are you finding being on paternity leave?’ I asked. ‘It’s wonderful that you’re taking proper time off.’

  ‘Isn’t it? But you’d be surprised. Not everyone thinks so. Cheryl had some stick for rushing back to work, and I took some ribbing from my colleagues for wanting to stop at home with the baby.’ He reached down and tickled Mabel’s tummy, making her gurgle with laughter. ‘But who wouldn’t want to?’

  Who indeed? Who would put their career above the precious gift of looking after a child? Only someone totally selfish. Only someone wholly self-absorbed. I thrust aside the mental image of Paddy. I would have to face the real one soon enough.

  ‘Have you time to help with the fundraising?’ I asked. ‘I’d hate to take up time you could be spending with Mabel.’

  ‘It’s no problem. I’ve already made a start. Look.’

  He swivelled his laptop round so that the screen faced me and any doubts I’d had about collaborating on this project were wiped away. He’d created an Excel spreadsheet, and though I couldn’t see all the details, the colour-coding and highlighted boxes were enough to convince me that I’d found a soulmate. I shuffled forwards for a closer look.

  ‘I’ve drawn up a timeline from now until the day of the walk, so we can keep on top of what needs doing when.’ He had, and I couldn’t have done a better job myself. ‘Critical dates are in red, target dates in blue. My tasks will be orange, your tasks in green. What do you think?’

  ‘It’s perfect. You’ve obviously done this before. What did you say your job was?’

  ‘Project manager.’ Winston grinned.
‘Does it show?’

  ‘Just a little. Do you always deliver on time?’

  ‘Of course.’

  I laughed, and we spent the next half hour discussing the plans and populating the spreadsheet. I enjoyed myself so much that I wondered whether this would qualify for one of Caitlyn’s ‘Be Kind to Yourself’ vouchers. Perhaps not, I decided. She wouldn’t understand, and would probably storm back from France to set me straight. Then again, that might make it worth doing …

  Winston disappeared to change Mabel’s nappy and I gathered up the notebook I had bought especially for this project. I flicked through the pages, ticking off items and admiring the progress we’d made, until I spotted something that we hadn’t mentioned yet – my initial idea of attempting a world record.

  ‘Did you have a chance to look into whether we can try for a world record?’ I asked when Winston reappeared. I’d mentioned it to him on the run on Tuesday, but neither of us had known what it might involve. ‘If not, you can add that to my list.’

  ‘Already done. It didn’t look promising. Can you hold Mabel a minute?’ He deposited her on my knee before I’d answered, and pulled some papers out of the drawer. Mabel felt soft and wriggly in my hands; it was a largely unfamiliar sensation, as I’d been away at university when Caitlyn was this age, but it was not an unpleasant one. ‘I don’t think it can just be the largest number of people to climb Winlow Hill in one day, or something as local as that. Or that’s how I interpreted the advice.’ Winston waved the papers at me. ‘It needs to be something that other people could try to beat – like the largest gathering of people dressed as pirates, or wearing top hats.’

  ‘I suppose we could try to think of something like that … people wearing flat caps?’

  ‘Accompanied by whippets?’ Winston grinned. ‘Time’s too tight anyway. It can take up to twelve weeks to get approval.’