Page 93 of The Man Who Didn't Call
Once again he turns. Once again he stops. ‘No, you . . . Are you Eddie?’
Jo, who’s by the bottom of the escalator, wheels round. She stares at me. They both do. Rudi looks vaguely in my direction, but he’s too busy being pissed off to take any real notice. I see Jo mouthing a few choice words – although I’m not sure if they’re born of anger or shock – then she marches her son through an automatic door.
I stand up and offer Tommy my hand, which he shakes, although it takes him a while.
‘How did you know?’ he asks. ‘Did Sarah get in touch with you?’ He’s blushed a deep, livid red, although I’m not sure why. It’s me who should be feeling ashamed.
‘I only found out this afternoon. It’s a long story. But Hannah knows I’m here, I think.’
Before he’s worked out what to say, I blurt, ‘How is she? Is she OK? Has the baby been born? Is Sarah all right? I’msorry – I know I sound mad, and I know I gave Sarah a terrible time last summer, but I . . . can’t bear it. I just want to know she’s OK.’
Tommy blushes even more deeply. His eyebrows have taken on a life of their own, as if he’s thinking up a speech, or solving a puzzle.
‘I honestly don’t know,’ he says eventually. ‘Jo’s just got off the phone to Sarah’s mum. I’m guessing she didn’t want to update me in front of Rudi.’
‘Shit,’ I say. ‘Does that mean it’s bad news?’
Tommy looks helpless and harassed. ‘I don’t know,’ he repeats. ‘I hope not. I mean, her parents were here earlier and they’ve gone home, so it’s probably just . . . Look, I have to go. I . . .’ He trails off, backing towards the exit. ‘Sorry, mate,’ he says, and then he’s gone.
It’s the middle of the night. I’m pacing, like people do in films. I understand it now. Sitting down would be like staying still while someone pressed hot metal to your skin.
I’m sharing the waiting area with an ageing man in his pyjamas, but neither of us has spoken to each other. He looks as anxious as I do. A grandfather, maybe. Like me, he can do little else but yawn, jiggle his knees and stare intermittently at the delivery-suite entrance.
I’ve decided this must be what purgatory feels like. Perpetual postponement. Intense waiting in the key of fear minor. Nothing moving, other than the slow hands of a clock.
Alan’s been trying to reassure me – keeps sending me articles about childbirth.Gia wants me to remind you that birth doesn’t need to be like those horror shows you see on telly, he wrote earlier.Women give birth all day long, all over the world. She says you should forget about allthat over-produced drama and visualize Sarah taking long, slow breaths.
Or something like that. I should take it seriously, but I’m too far gone.
In desperation, I start reading the messages Sarah sent me last summer. I read the whole lot, from the day she left my barn to the day before we met on Santa Monica Beach. I read them twice, three times, trying to find something I know they can’t tell me.
Then the delivery-suite door opens and my heart starts galloping. But it’s just a staff member, pulling on a hat, yawning, plunging her hands deep into her coat pockets. She walks past us both with barely a sideways glance, patently exhausted.
I can’t bear it.
I scroll back to the first message Sarah sent me, twenty minutes after we said goodbye.
Back home, it said.I had such a wonderful time with you. Thank you, for everything. X
I had a wonderful time, too,I write now.In fact, I had the best week of my life. I can still hardly believe it happened.
On my way to Leicester and thinking about you, she had written, a couple of hours later.
I was thinking about you, too, I write.And while I admit my thoughts weren’t as lovely and straightforward as yours, by that stage, I want you to know that underneath it all, I was hopelessly in love with you. That was what made it more painful than anything else – I was absolutely, totally, head over heels in love with you. I couldn’t believe you existed. I still can’t.
Then her messages started getting worried.Hey – you OK? Did you get to Gatwick in time?
I swallow. It’s painful, watching her panic unfurl, knowing I could have stopped it.
I read a few more, but then I stop, because I feel too guilty.
You are the best and most beautiful person I have ever known, I write instead.And I knew that the first day we spent together. You fell asleep and I thought, I want to marry this woman.
I love you, Sarah, I write. I think I’m crying.I wish I was there with you, cheering you on. I want only for you and the baby to be safe.
I’m so sorry I haven’t been there for you. I wish I had been. I wish we could have done this together. I should have been braver. I should have trusted I’d be able to work something out with Mum. I should have stopped at nothing.
I’m definitely crying. A tear is pooling fatly across my phone screen. I try to clean it with a dirty cuff and the whole thing goes blurry. Then another one drips down and I realize I’m in danger of actually sobbing. I stand up and start walking again. I go outside, where the air is cold as an arctic sea, but it stops the tears immediately, so I stay there. The car park is quiet now. Coppery light, leafless trees swaying in a bitter breeze.
