9. Jack
Chapter 9
Jack
J ack had never expected to see Carly Young again. In fact, wrapping up the memory of that time they had briefly shared together and shoving it away in a box somewhere at the back of his brain has worked pretty well up until now. He has to admit that the lid has eased itself off from time to time, allowing just a glimpse of a memory of that night down by the river, but the feelings that come with it are best pushed aside.
He made his choice, went home to Molly and married her, and that was that. Of course, he has wondered sometimes what might have happened if he had not been made so suddenly and unexpectedly redundant, if he had stayed in London for longer, if their paths had carried on crossing…
He can’t deny that he had fancied her rotten, from the moment he had first seen her. Carly was so unlike other girls he had known – the country types, all ruddy-faced and wellie-boot practical, or the few he briefly dated or bedded, all let loose from home for the first time and hell-bent on drinking themselves stupid, while he was away at uni. He can’t define what it was, but something about Carly had jumped up and grabbed him by the throat, taking him by surprise, sending the sort of shockwaves through him that had scared the life out of him.
He still doesn’t know how he managed to hold himself back when they had taken that moonlit stroll by the river, how he had stopped that long lingering kiss from developing into so much more, how he had kept his hands under control and stopped them doing what he longed for them to do, exploring every inch of her. But a quickie in some dark alley, or sneaking her into Syd’s, or finding a cheap hotel for a few hours, none of that had felt like the right thing to do. She deserved better, and so did Molly.
He watches her walk away from him and out through the park gates, never taking his eyes off her, the remains of his lunch uneaten at his side and the work report lying unread in his lap. What next? Meeting again is far more than just a possibility now. It’s unavoidable, inevitable. They are working in the same building and he could run into her again at any moment. The thought should worry him but it doesn’t. It excites him. In more ways than one, he realises, adjusting the pile of papers spread across his lap so no passer-by will notice the erection that is suddenly pressing hard against his trousers. It is only the second one he can ever remember experiencing while wearing an office suit. And the first? That had been down to Carly too. That night by the river.
Oh God, what is this woman doing to him? He hardly knows her, but he wants to. He wants to, so much.
‘Good day?’ Molly is bustling around in the tiny kitchen when he gets home. She has obviously been baking because the whole flat smells so strongly of cake mixture that he feels a sudden urge to grab the mixing bowl and start licking it, the way he always did when he was a kid.
‘It was okay,’ he says, preferring not to talk, or even think, about the office now he’s away from it. ‘Something smells good.’
‘It’s cherry and sultana. Your favourite.’
He’s surprised to hear that he has a favourite. Cake is cake, as far as he’s concerned, and he’ll eat it. Whatever flavour it happens to be.
‘You know me so well,’ he says, his gaze scouring the worktops for the bowl and failing to find it. She’s so super-efficient, his wife, that she’s already washed everything up and put it away. ‘So, why the cake? Are we celebrating something?’
‘No. I was just in a baking mood, that’s all. But talking of celebrations reminds me, it’s your mum’s birthday coming up. I thought maybe we could go home for the weekend and see her? Well, see everyone, I mean. I’d like to see my mum and dad too.’
‘We could, I suppose. But without a car…’
‘The train’s easy enough. Not as if we need to take a lot with us, is it? Although I would like to take her a birthday cake.’
‘Ah, I get it now. This one’s a trial run, right? But you do know she’s not a fan of sultanas?’
‘Of course I do. No, I was thinking of something a bit fancier than this. Something lemony, maybe with a hint of ginger, with royal icing and some roses on the top. If I’m going to try selling posh cakes from home, I need to start experimenting, getting plenty of practice.’
‘You’re really going to do it? The cakes thing? It’s nice to know you listen to my ideas sometimes!’
‘Maybe. I’m not sure yet. There’s a lot to think about.’ She leans over and plants a kiss on his cheek. ‘But it beats having to find a proper job. Now, go and get out of that suit and I’ll make you a cup of tea to go with the cake. I haven’t started on any dinner yet.’
‘Too busy cake-making to think about proper food, eh?’
‘Something like that,’ she says.
‘You all right, Mol? You look a bit pale.’
‘Fine. A bit of a headache, that’s all.’
‘We’ll get a takeaway then,’ he says, going into the bedroom and stepping out of his trousers. They lie on the carpet, the striped cloth a puddle of crumpled grey, zip open like a gaping mouth, and he can’t help but think about lunchtime, the park, Carly…
‘That’ll be nice,’ Molly says, following him into the room and flopping onto the bed, watching him as he undoes his tie. ‘I really don’t feel like cooking. Something light though, eh? I don’t fancy a pile of greasy chips tonight.’
He slips out of his shirt and lies down next to her on top of the covers. ‘So, what do you fancy?’ he mutters, his nose burrowing into her hair, his lips grazing her ear. She likes that. Well, usually she does. But this evening she pushes him away.
‘I told you. I’ve got a headache,’ she says. ‘The kettle’s on. Go and have your cake and I’ll be out in a minute. I’m going to ring Mum and tell her we’re coming down. Friday night okay with you? I know the trains will be busy but we’ll get an extra night that way, won’t we?’
‘Yeah. Sure. Whatever you think best.’
Jack pulls on a pair of old jeans and a T-shirt and goes back to the kitchen and makes himself a cup of tea. It’s gone very quiet in the bedroom. He thought Molly was meant to be ringing her mum, but he can’t hear her voice. He cuts a big slice of cake and stirs the teabag around in his tea, then pops his head round the door to ask if she wants a cuppa too, but she’s not on the phone. She’s lying on her side, her mouth slightly open, her hair falling over one eye, and she’s fast asleep.
Jack is half disappointed and half relieved not to run into Carly again over the next few days. He likes the thought of her being around but he needs time to get used to the idea and, luckily, he’s too busy at work to stop and think about it, or her, too much.
He pulls the photo of Molly out of his drawer, wipes the dusty glass on his sleeve, and puts it on display on his desk. Not that he needs reminding that he’s married, but he does it anyway. Steady, reliable, honest. That’s what he wants to be, and the way he wants others to see him. It’s the right image, he decides. The version of Jack Doherty that fits in a place like this.
All he has to do now is put Carly Young back where she belongs – back into that box in his head – and leave her there, just as he has done, mostly successfully, ever since he last saw her five years ago. He’s a different man now – a married man – and even though sometimes it feels like he’s just going through the motions, doing all the grown-up responsible stuff that’s expected of him, waiting for some kind of real, exciting life to begin, he refuses to forget that one simple undeniable fact. He made a choice, and he’s sticking by it. Carly’s in the past, and she has to stay there. He doesn’t want to do anything stupid, anything he knows he will only come to regret. Well, okay, maybe he does want to, but he’s not going to. He shakes his head as if that will somehow shake her out of his thoughts, turns his attention back to the screen in front of him and puts himself firmly back into work mode.
Friday comes around quickly and he does something he hasn’t dared do before, not while he’s still settling in and learning the lie of the land. He sneaks off early. Molly has booked them reserved seats on the six fifteen train and he needs to get home, get changed, and get them both onto the Tube and to Liverpool Street in time. If anyone notices or wants to make a fuss about it, it will have to wait until Monday, but it doesn’t look as if anyone cares. Half the office is empty by four, so he’s probably not the only one wanting to start the weekend early.
Molly’s waiting for him, a weekend bag packed and ready by the door, one of her special plastic cake carriers loaded up with the special lemon cake she’s so proud of. She’s wearing a thin floaty dress in a flowery pattern that skims her ankles, and a bright-pink jacket he can’t remember seeing before.
‘I went shopping,’ she says. ‘Do you like it?’
He nods, looking her up and down. ‘You’ll do nicely. As long as it didn’t cost too much. We are living on only one wage, remember,’ he jokes, flicking at her hair as he rushes into the bedroom to get changed.
‘It didn’t,’ she says as he emerges into the small hallway, and grabs his keys, ready to go.
‘What didn’t what?’
‘It didn’t cost too much. Not that I know how much too much is. I just wanted something new, that’s all. Something nice.’
‘Okay, okay. I didn’t mean anything by it. If you like it, that’s fine.’
He can’t help feeling, as they hurry towards the station, that he’s said something wrong. She’s walking with her head down, saying very little, and it’s impossible to grab for her hand while she’s concentrating on balancing the cake and he’s trying to manoeuvre a case with a wonky wheel along the busy pavement without rapping it into someone’s ankles.
‘You okay, Mol?’ he says, as he stows their bags on the train and they finally settle into their aisle seats, facing each other across a table. So far, nobody has turned up to claim the seats beside them, so there’s room to spread his legs out a bit. The big cake in its plastic container dominates the table in front of them.
‘Fine,’ she says, laying her head back against the headrest and closing her eyes. ‘Just tired.’
‘Did you bring anything to eat? Make any sandwiches or anything?’
She gives a quiet sigh. ‘We’ll be there in time for dinner. Mum’s making a roast.’
‘Oh, right.’ He feels his insides rumble. Norfolk feels like a long way away on an empty stomach, and seeing that cake on the table and knowing he’s not allowed to touch it doesn’t help. ‘That’s going to be pretty late though, isn’t it? I’ll just go along to the refreshment place and grab a quick coffee and a muffin or something. Or a beer, if they’ve got any. Want anything?’
She shakes her head. ‘I’m okay, thanks. Maybe just a tea?’
‘Right. Won’t be long.’
He has to wait a few minutes for the coffee place to open, and there are already three people in front of him in the queue. He places his feet apart, allowing his body to sway with the motion of the train and watches through the window as the grubby London buildings pass by.
He hasn’t given a lot of thought to home since they’ve been away, but now he finds he’s looking forward to getting back to the village, seeing their families, breathing a bit of good old country air. He has no regrets about leaving but something in him still craves the familiarity, the safety of a place he knows like the back of his hand. Seeing his mum and dad, and that easy comfortable way they have with each other. Loyal, trusting. He could never imagine them wanting anyone else, doing anything to hurt each other, or ever being apart. It’s the sort of relationship he’s grown up around, the sort he just naturally expected to find for himself one day. Is there passion there? Who knows? It’s not something anyone wants to think about, their parents having sex. But theirs is an uncomplicated, deep and steady, forever kind of love, the kind that’s just there, always, unspoken but ingrained, right through to their bones. He knows, without ever having to ask, that there have been no Carly moments in his dad’s life, and that there never will be.
Molly is asleep when he gets back to their seats. He puts her tea down on the table and tries to decide whether to wake her up or just let it go cold. She’s a pretty sleeper. Not one of those whose tongue lolls out or who dribbles down her chin. Not a snorer. He likes watching her sleep, wondering if she’s dreaming, and what about. He knows he’s lucky. That she is a good wife, a loving and loyal wife, just as steady and capable as his mum, and hers, in it for the long haul.
He doesn’t deserve her. What man gets horny sitting in the park with a woman he hardly knows? Wonders, every time he gets out of the lift at work, if he’s going to bump into her, and hopes he might? Wonders why he can’t quite get her out of his head? He remembers their conversation, what Carly had said about him being the right man at the wrong time. She was right, of course. It had been a mistake, and one he could not let himself repeat. For that one evening though, down by the river, there had been magic in the air, something new and exciting in his life, something he had never felt quite so intensely before. But, just as in all the best fairy tales, magic rarely lasts. Reality comes back with a bump. This isn’t Cinderella, and he is no Prince Charming. Molly is his life, his reality.
‘Oh, sorry, did I nod off?’ She opens her eyes and pushes her messy blonde hair back behind her ears, reaching for her cardboard cup of tea and taking a sip. ‘Can’t have been for long. It’s still warm!’
He rests his elbows on the table and reaches out, finding her fingers and rolling her rings around. ‘Looking forward to being back?’ he asks.
‘God, yes! Seeing our mums and dads, and Flossy, of course. The fresh eggs, the pub, the lumpy bed…’
‘Not so sure about the bed. That mattress will be the death of me. But the pub sounds good. I could just eat one of their famous pies right now.’
‘Tomorrow maybe. I expect we’ll be going out to eat for your mum’s birthday. Your dad won’t want her to have to cook. But we’ve got the roast tonight, remember.’
‘With Yorkshire puddings? And roast potatoes? And parsnips?’
‘Jack! I can see you drooling already. Of course. When did my mum ever do a roast any other way?’
‘I must say, Maureen’s gravy alone is almost worth the long journey home for.’
She kicks him playfully under the table. ‘It’s not a long journey, Jack. We’ll be there before you know it. We should make sure we do it often. There’s nowhere quite like home, is there?’
He smiles, takes his hand away from hers and reaches for his beer. Home’s fine, he thinks. In small doses. But home – that home – is not somewhere he wants to live again. He’s moved on now, and taken Molly with him. The last thing he wants is to be sucked back into that dead-end life. They’ve only been out of London for half an hour but already he’s thinking about Sunday, and itching to go back.