Chapter 15 #3
Maia and Charlotte have not been together long. Maybe four or five months, and they are still in that heady phase where they manipulate plans to squeeze in more time together and where everyday things feel exciting simply because they are in each other’s company.
“Come along tomorrow,” Charlotte says one Friday evening, threading her long fingers through Maia’s. “We’re restoring the most beautiful old water tower and the steels have just started to go in for this huge two-story curved glass extension.”
Maia knows she wouldn’t ask if it might appear unprofessional, but as she draws Charlotte’s knuckle to her lips, she says, “Would it be odd?”
“Odd? No, the client is working in Amsterdam all week, so he’s just grateful I’m willing to do another weekend visit.
And this one’s last minute because his builders have messed up.
” She shifts her position on the sofa. “But the main thing is we’ll have the drive.
Three hours there and back. We’ve never been in a car together. ”
Maia likes the idea of going on a journey with Charlotte. Of sharing that liminal space between A and B. The side streets around their flats in Brighton are too overcrowded for either to want to own a car, but Charlotte’s architect firm has a few that the partners pool for site visits.
“Will there be snacks?” Maia asks.
“In the car?” Sometimes, like now, Maia finds herself saying things just to see Charlotte’s sleek black hair quiver at her jaw before settling back into place, along with her composure.
“Yes,” Maia says. “I’m imagining how good roasted edamame would be. All those little grains of salt getting stuck in the folds of leather around the gearstick.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Charlotte laughs. And she leans over then, their lips meeting, her body pressing against Maia’s, causing the cat to abandon its place between them.
The following morning, when they are nearly at the end of the road, the seafront already sparkling into view, Maia regrets not packing her book.
She asks Charlotte to wait while she dashes back.
She wonders later, if she’d remembered the first time—if she’d decided not to go back at all—whether she might have avoided crossing paths with him.
In a crowd, in a city, she is always looking for him.
She sees the back of his head, his profile, his gait, in the form of every middle-aged man he might conceivably have morphed into during the decades since she last saw him.
It makes her heart race, as though life—the world—is always on the verge of unleashing a grenade on her.
But today she is not looking. She is lost in the easy lull of their conversation; in the way it feels, as the cars on the motorway slow to a halt, for Charlotte to place her arm across the passenger seat like a second seatbelt.
This small action as instinctive as braking itself.
They sit. Five minutes, then ten, until finally a lorry in the lane beside them rumbles into action and pulls forward. “I hate that,” Charlotte says. “That thing where it feels like you’re suddenly going backward.”
“I remember reading something about it. That it’s an optical illusion to do with your brain using the things around you as spatial reference points. So our lane of traffic is staying still, but for a moment your brain…”
As she says this, Maia turns to look at the car beside her, and even as she carries on speaking, she is thinking, Is it?
It can’t be. She is so used to being proved wrong.
But, as if he senses being watched, he turns and, for a moment, their eyes lock and they are staring at one another.
Incomprehensibly. As though there might be a fault in the panes of glass that separate them.
Maia wants to look away. To duck. But just as much to keep him in her sight. “Lock the doors,” she says to Charlotte.
“What?”
“Lock them! The doors!” she barks, feeling frantic, reaching to check if the button beside her is down.
He has turned his whole body toward her now.
He is looking right at her, shifting in his seat, as though he might be about to get out.
She jumps at the half-click of the mechanism and Charlotte’s voice: “They were already locked. Why do we—” But then she is interrupting herself, “Oh, this looks promising,” and they’re moving forward, the car containing Maia’s father seeming to roll backward.
His face—its expression—already changing, as he realizes he’s being left behind.
And a second later, he and his car have disappeared from view.
As their lane of traffic gathers speed, Maia presses an imaginary pedal to the floor, willing them to go faster. “For God’s sake, can’t you just—”
“What would you like me to do? Ram the car in front?” Charlotte sounds more bemused than anything, as though dealing with a child. “Here,” she says, leaning over to open the glove box. “I know you were just teasing me, but see how much I love you? Snacks.”
Maia ignores the packet of edamame and turns to monitor the traffic.
And when she doesn’t see the silver of his car—at least she thinks it was silver.
But was it? Her memory floods with possibilities.
Perhaps it was blue, black even…It could be any color.
It could be all the colors—the road courses with danger, every car now a threat.
She sits low in her seat, flattening herself against the backrest as though attempting to compress her entire being into the leather, waiting for impact, waiting for him to chase them down.
They’re moving faster now, the car gaining on her heartbeat.
Thirty miles per hour. Then forty. Blood hammering against her chest, making her want to vomit panic and fear all over the dashboard.
Charlotte puts a hand on her knee. “Are you okay?” And Maia brushes her off. Instinct. The metal chassis immediately transparent, because if he were to pull level, if he were to cruise alongside them, he would see. He would know. And he would be disgusted by her.
During the site visit she sits in the car like a sullen teenager—book closed—reliving those few seconds over and over.
She conjures her father’s face, anxious she’s distorting the image with each replaying.
She was nine when she last saw him. He is grayer now—older—his features etched more deeply with lines.
But anger, shame, regret…? It’s impossible to tell.
And did he definitely recognize her, or might she have changed beyond recognition?
But surely even he would always know his own child?
His expression morphs each time she pictures it.
Sometimes he is benign, sometimes stern, almost maleficent.
A word so close to magnificent, she thinks, sent off-course by maleness.
But his expression is irrelevant. Far more important is the question of where he was going.
And who might be waiting for him at the other end.
Charlotte and her client come back into view. It’s not until later, on the drive home—when the day is already ruined—that Maia will tell her everything.