Chapter 22
I couldn’t be happier to be finally released from solitary confinement, to return to the office and then, on Friday night, go for a drink with Gavin.
But he texts a couple of hours beforehand to break the news that he’s had an adverse reaction to some unfermented cabbage kimchi and will have to stay at home until it passes.
I don’t ask for more detail. Instead, I wish him a speedy recovery and make alternative plans to go to the wine bar in Roebury village, where Rose had invited me to join the others anyway.
It turns out she’d been reading about a resort in Spain and wanted to put an idea to us.
‘It’s called La Manga,’ she says. ‘You can play golf or football there, but the tennis is also a huge part of it. They cater for everyone from beginners to pros.’
‘I’ve heard good things about it,’ Nora says, taking a sip of her drink.
‘Look, I know some of you have kids so this is not easy,’ Rose continues, ‘but why don’t we try and organise a little trip there? I’m very into Barbara Bainbridge’s life ethos these days. And it would be so much fun.’
‘Well, it sounds like bliss – but how long are we talking?’ Lisa asks.
‘I think we’d need at least three days,’ Rose says.
‘Leo would probably want to stay on his own, but I’ll have to speak to Brendan about having Jacob. It’s doable in theory now he lives closer to Roebury. I’d just have to write him a massive manual in advance . . .’
‘About what?’
She shrugs. ‘School pick-up times. Packed lunches. Homework app passwords. And clubs.’
‘For three days?’ Rose asks, incredulous.
‘You don’t know how many clubs Jacob’s in. Plus, Brendan isn’t exactly pin sharp on this stuff, as you know.’
Rose shakes her head. ‘There is a name for the way your ex-husband acts, you know. It’s called “weaponised incompetence”. When someone is deliberately helpless so you’ll just run around doing things for them.’
‘Now you’re being unfair,’ Lisa says. ‘Brendan’s uselessness is completely genuine.’
‘Does it really matter if he drops the ball on some of the less important stuff while you’re away? It’s only a short time,’ I ask.
‘No, you’re right,’ she replies. ‘As long as both kids are alive, I can just pick up the pieces when I get back. Leave it with me. I’ll do my best.’
For Nora, the decision will come down to timing and her husband Iain’s work commitments.
As for me, I’m tempted, I can’t deny it.
But I don’t know whether it’s wise when my job feels so insecure at the moment.
Our company-wide review is in full flow and as a result, everyone at Fable & Punk is on a mission to stress how dazzlingly effective and utterly irreplaceable we are.
Booking even a few days off at the moment feels like tempting fate.
‘Jeff’s already said he’s in,’ Rose tells me, clearly hoping this might be the factor I need to sway me.
‘Where is he tonight?’ Nora asks.
‘Chatting to the owner of the Raja Tandoori about a PTA Curry & Quiz night,’ I tell her. ‘He’ll be here soon.’
He arrives nearly an hour later, having been persuaded to sample half the menu, and heads to the bar to get himself a glass.
‘Has Barbara selected the team for next Thursday’s league match yet?’ Lisa asks.
‘She’s going to announce the names on the WhatsApp group tomorrow,’ Nora replies.
Rose sighs. ‘Why am I so pathetically desperate to be picked, even after being battered last night?’
One of the main topics of conversation has been Lisa and Rose’s debut in a Women’s B team match against another local club. It was the first league fixture of this season. Both insist they loved it, despite being comprehensively beaten in all but a single game.
‘You must have been over the moon when you won that one,’ Jeff says, catching the tail-end of the conversation as he sits down.
‘Lisa threatened to do a cartwheel,’ Rose says.
‘I settled for a fist-pump. I know from bitter experience at one of Rose’s boozy barbecues that gymnastics never ends well for me these days.’
‘Wasn’t it stressful against such a tough team?’ I ask.
‘Obviously I’d have enjoyed it more if we’d won,’ Rose confesses. ‘But at least we know where we are now. Next time, if I get anything less than last night’s eight double faults I’ll be happy.’
‘You were probably just nervous,’ Nora says. ‘Next time, take a deep breath and remind yourself how lucky you are to be outside playing a game you love. It doesn’t matter if you win or lose. It’s the showing up that counts.’
‘Oh Nora, you are so lovely,’ Jeff says, patting her on the hand fondly. ‘But that is quite ridiculous.’
‘No, it’s not!’ she laughs.
‘I have to say I feel like a fraud,’ Lisa says, turning to me. ‘Jules, you are a better player than me. If anyone’s playing in a competition it should be you.’
‘Oh, don’t be silly,’ I scoff and after a few more dismissive murmurings, I’m glad when the conversation moves on.
I get home late that night, buzzing less from the wine than the conversation.
I lie in bed for a while exchanging messages with Frankie about her journey to Sorrento.
They had train trouble apparently and ended up having to take alternative transport.
‘Before you ask, no I didn’t hitchhike. It was on a bus. All above board.’
I might not have asked, but I can’t deny that was the first thing that went through my head.
She has never been acutely attuned to danger.
When she was small, no tree was too big for her to climb, no roller coaster too scary for her to jump straight on.
Part of me envies the fact that she over-thinks nothing, while also being aware that anxiety is not a completely pointless phenomenon in human beings.
Being ‘spunky’ isn’t always a good thing, as I discovered when my first attempts to teach her to safely cross a road when she was little proved fruitless – she’d still slip my hand and run off whenever the urge took her, causing traffic to screech to a halt.
Still, she got to Sorrento in one piece and has apparently been offered a job.
‘I’m going to be working in a bar,’ she tells me. ‘They didn’t seem to mind that I haven’t got much experience.’
‘That’s good. Didn’t they mind that you don’t speak any Italian?’
‘LOL,’ she replies, leaving me none the wiser as to how this is ever going to work.
Eventually, I click on Instagram, where I am briefly sucked into a video with the title ‘Three Power Backhand Secrets’, but find my mind starting to drift. And before I know it, I’ve ended up making the one Google search I promised myself I wouldn’t.
Sam Delaney plastic surgeon
The results that filter in include various listings at NHS and private hospitals, all accompanied by the same head-and-shoulders shot, a photo that does him no justice whatsoever, but a bolt of heat still spreads through my centre.
I click on the first search result and read a biog that describes him as ‘Associate professor of craniofacial plastic and reconstructive surgery’ – and goes on to list a whole load of accolades and fellowships, adding that his specialism is ‘facial trauma management’.
I click on an accompanying video entitled ‘Jim’s story’.
It’s ten minutes long and features a NATO veteran who was on a peacekeeping mission in Sudan when a landmine destroyed the bones of his face and jaw.
He’d had eight previously unsuccessful surgeries, hadn’t eaten solid food in twenty-five years and was living every day of his life in pain.
‘Then I met Mr Delaney.’
When Sam appears, my heart catches. He’s in a suit, looking sharp.
I take in the soft bristles of his beard.
The faint crinkles around his eyes. The bob of his Adam’s apple when he speaks.
He explains how he worked to reconstruct Jim’s entire jaw using bone from his fibula, state-of-the-art technology and virtual planning.
When he talks, it’s with an air of inexhaustible brilliance that he seems completely oblivious to.
You’d think he was describing how he’d built some Lego.
‘I got my life back,’ says Jim, in a tearful summary. ‘That’s no exaggeration. I owe this man my life.’
I turn my phone on silent and sigh as I try to decipher my thoughts, which were significantly more straightforward when I thought he was a total sell-out.