‘If ?’
‘Yes – we don’t give a cold to everyone who comes here; you might be part of a control group. Oh, your room-mate should be along this afternoon too. You’ve got a lady called . . .’ He consulted his clipboard, ‘. . . Mrs Harrington. Georgina Harrington. She’s in her fifties so don’t go having any wild parties and keeping her up all night, will you?’
Any disappointment that Kate might have felt about having a room-mate so much older than her was instantly diminished by the way he was smiling.
‘No wild parties?’ she queried, straight-faced. ‘But what on earth will I do to stop myself getting bored while I’m here?’ He slowly reached out and touched the back of her hand with his forefinger.
‘I can promise you won’t get bored. At least not on my shifts, anyway.’
After he’d gone, Kate lay back on her bed replaying the entire meeting in her mind, a huge smile spread over her face. She couldn’t believe what he’d said to her – nor what she’d said to him. It wasn’t at all like her to be so forward and flirty. There was just something about Stephen Wilson and his blond floppy hair and the way he looked at her with those big brown eyes . . .
She changed her mind about going for a walk, and retreated into the bathroom again, this time to pluck her bikini line and shave her legs. She hadn’t expected she’d need to do this – but she now had the distinct feeling it might be necessary. Pity she’d have to share with this Georgina woman. Although maybe Stephen had his own room where they could . . .
. . . No, stop it, Kate told herself. He’s the doctor! Probably nothing’s going to happen.
But somehow she knew that it would. ‘No, I don’t think I am going to be at all bored,’ she said out loud.
The effort of telling the story had taken its toll on her. Kate tried to bite down on her yawn but it escaped, and then Paul yawned too, and they looked at each other and laughed.
‘I think I need my bed,’ she said.
‘Me too.’
As they stood up Paul turned to put his jacket on, and when he turned back he caught her eye. Something passed between them. Or was she imagining it? The tiredness that made her body feel strange, the state of the high emotion she was in, the mention of bed, and the undeniable fact that this man looked almost exactly like Stephen – it was a dangerous mix. She averted her eyes and concentrated on lifting Jack – god, he was getting heavy – hoping she hadn’t flushed pink the way she knew she did, and, if she had, hoping Paul hadn’t noticed.
When she looked more closely at him, she could tell they hadn’t been absolutely identical. She was sure that Paul was slightly taller and bulkier, and he had a tiny chip at the side of his front tooth . . . although what did their similarities or differences matter anyway? The point was, he wasn’t Stephen. It would feel like a betrayal to get involved with his brother – wouldn’t it? Not that Paul would be interested in her, she felt sure. He would undoubtedly see it as a betrayal too. He could be married himself, for all she knew. Although he hadn’t mentioned it, and he wasn’t wearing a ring . . . She wanted to slap herself. Kate, what the hell are you thinking? This is the last thing you need now.
‘Let’s meet here tomorrow morning,’ Paul said. ‘Nine o’clock?’
‘Make it nine-thirty.’
‘Okay.’
He hovered. What was he doing? She had this awful feeling he was trying to decide whether to kiss her goodnight.
‘Night, Paul,’ she said.
‘Okay. Night.’
She watched him walk across the lobby. At the revolving doors he looked back at her and nodded. A little shiver went through her.
After putting Jack to bed – he hadn’t stirred all the way from the lounge to the room; again, she had paranoid thoughts about being a bad mother because he hadn’t cleaned his teeth or washed his face – Kate lay down and tried to join him in sleep. But her brain was too active and her heart refused to slow down. She got up, fetched herself a glass of water and went out onto the balcony. Her room had a view of the river, the lights of the South Bank shimmering orange and lemon on the water. Voices floated up to her: a man shouting, a woman laughing. A plane drifted in the space between clouds.
Her life was in a mess. Her marriage was over, she had no home or job, and probably no friends any more. The only people she had were Aunt Lil, who barely recognised her, and her sister Miranda and her family.
When she’d boarded the plane in Boston she’d experienced the intoxicating thrill of new-found freedom, a euphoria that had made her want to stand up in her seat and scream with joy. But like a prisoner who busts out of jail after years inside, the euphoria didn’t last long. The outside world was a scary place.
But even though a primitive part of her – the part that longed for safety and comfort – wanted to flee back to the States, she knew she had done the right thing. She would get through this period.
If Vernon doesn’t find you, an internal voice whispered.
No, he wouldn’t find her. And if he did, what could he do?
He’ll say you’ve kidnapped your own son. He’s always threatened that he’d hunt you down if you ever tried to take him away. He’ll take Jack back. You’ll lose him.
No! That couldn’t happen. She had brought Jack to England for his own good. It was the right thing to do. And she was English – the law would protect her here, wouldn’t it? They wouldn’t let Vernon take her son away from her, would they?
Kate thought back to how powerful her initial attraction to Vernon had been, and how unbelievable it seemed to her now that she could ever have felt that way about him.
He had never been a particularly good-looking man, but he was possessed of that magical aphrodisiacal quality, charisma – and he’d had it in spades. The first time she saw him, he’d been giving a talk at a literary festival in Boston, on Gertrude Stein’s life and work. Kate had gone along on a whim, feeling that she needed to exercise the non-scientific synapses of her brain before they withered and died completely. Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas had always fascinated her. She’d turned up at the library where the free talk was taking place, and sat down in the middle of a long curved row at the front. Vernon had strode out before his meagre audience with the demeanour of a man taking the stage at Madison Square Gardens, rather than giving a lecture to half a dozen people in a library. What a prat, Kate had thought – until he began to speak. He was so passionate, so smart and articulate, and he knew his subject so well, that by the end of the talk, all the women present had fallen for him. He knew it, too – he made lingering eye-contact with each one, and when he asked, ‘Any questions?’ there was a glint in his eye that made every woman there want to cry, ‘Will you go on a date with me?’
But it was Kate he’d chosen that day, breaking away from the two breathless sophomores who were quizzing him afterwards, and introducing himself to her by the ‘Just Returned’ shelves.
‘I love your accent,’ he’d said. ‘Can I buy you dinner?’
The months that followed had felt to Kate like skydiving – a constant teetering on the edge of new experiences, a rush of adrenaline and the thrill of the new. Vernon introduced her to a world of culture she’d never experienced (or been able to afford) before: the ballet, the opera, art-house