The Flight of Cornelia Blackwood Page 2

  ‘That must be so nice – my flat’s opposite an auto repair centre, so the noises I wake up to aren’t quite so charming, even on Saturdays – in fact, I think that’s their busiest day.’

  He didn’t say anything, but the silence felt like it was about to burst – a definite pregnant pause. Was I imagining the sexual tension?

  ‘Saturdays,’ he said slowly. ‘That’s what you’re likely to wake up to tomorrow morning, is it?’

  I nodded, unable to speak. Were we each thinking about the other lying in bed, naked? I took another sip of my wine. Could he hear my heart thudding? I wanted to look at him, but if I did, he’d see exactly what was going through my mind. I never usually slept with anyone on the first date, but this was different, wasn’t it? I could feel him looking at me. What should I do? What should I—

  ‘So,’ he said, and there was something so sexy about the way he uttered that tiny word, I felt absolutely certain he was going to ask me to stay the night. I turned my face towards him. He fixed my gaze and looked right into my eyes. ‘Can I tempt you to some shop-bought chocolate tart?’

  ‘Oh . . . oh yes, yes please,’ I spoke quickly, too loudly and far too brightly. Then, in my hurry to take another sip of wine to cover my embarrassment, I knocked the glass and it rocked sideways before I managed to grab it, but not before I’d slopped Sauvignon Blanc all over the table. ‘Oh God, sorry . . .’ I rummaged in my bag for tissues and to hide the shame that was burning my face.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said. ‘It’s only a drop. Here, let me top you up.’ As he filled my glass, I noticed that his hand trembled slightly.

  He went into the kitchen for the tart and brought it to the table with a pot of double cream. Neither of us said much as we ate, and the sexual tension that I’d been so certain was there had evaporated – if it was ever there in the first place. The silence was not so much charged as empty. Gaping, in fact. And I couldn’t think of a single bloody thing to say.

  ‘Coffee?’ He didn’t meet my eye this time. He was bored. Shit. I was boring him. Or maybe I’d scared him off; maybe it was written all over my face.

  ‘I’d love some. Thanks.’ I cringed at how formal I sounded, how polite.

  He went back inside to make the coffee while I stacked the dessert plates, then carried them and the remainder of the chocolate tart in through the French doors. ‘Shall I put this in the fridge?’

  ‘Oh, yes please, thanks. The box is on the side there.’

  I glanced at him as I slid the tart back in its box. He seemed anxious and he kept running his hand through his hair, making it stick up at the crown. For an awful moment I thought he was going to say something to end the date, or at least to make it clear there wouldn’t be another. This was crazy; I’d only really got to know him over the last few hours, and now I couldn’t bear the thought of life without him.

  ‘Leah,’ he said, and as I braced myself for the brush-off, I realised he was reaching for me, and the next thing I knew we had our arms around each other – me still holding the chocolate tart behind his back – and we were kissing and kissing and kissing. ‘Stay,’ he murmured when we eventually pulled apart. ‘Don’t go home tonight.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  NOW

  Shit. I forgot to turn Adrian’s alarm off last night. I stretch across the cold expanse of empty bed and hit the button. When he’s away, I’d rather sleep late so I’m less aware of him not being here. I miss the sounds of him getting ready for work in the mornings – I like hearing him shave in the bathroom, whistling in the shower, Radio Sheffield on in the kitchen while he makes his scrambled eggs. I ease myself out of bed, but my back feels a bit better today. I shower and dress, grab my stick just in case and make my way down to the kitchen. I switch on the coffee machine and throw the last two slices of bread into the toaster. We’re low on butter, too, and milk, so as soon as I’ve eaten I grab my coat and my keys. It’s chilly today, and though it’s not actually raining, there’s the sort of drizzle that you barely notice until you realise you’re actually quite wet.

  Our local convenience store is pretty good for the bits you need between online shops, and I grab milk, butter, feta cheese, cherry tomatoes, a loaf of wholemeal and a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. There’s only one checkout open today, and my heart sinks when I see who’s operating it. Surely the woman should have retired by now? But maybe she isn’t as old as she looks. Her hair, which this time is an improbable blue-black, is fiercely permed and rigid as a helmet. She smiles at each customer and her puffy chin wobbles as she comments on the weather, or on what the customer is buying, or about the rumoured introduction of self-service checkouts which, apparently, will put everyone out of work and is the thin end of the wedge and a slippery slope. Personally, I can’t wait. I watch her numerous gold rings flashing on her pudgy fingers as she scans the barcodes and helps to pack items into carrier bags. When I get to the front of the queue, she says, ‘Morning, duck,’ automatically before looking up and meeting my eye. I see the recognition and distaste fluttering across her features simultaneously.

  ‘And forty Marlboro Lights, please.’

  Her blatant scorn sharpens my embarrassment at the public acknowledgement of my addiction. She slides open the door to the tobacco cupboard, takes two packs of cigarettes from the shelf and tosses them onto the counter.

  ‘Thank you,’ I murmur as she scans the contents of my basket, banging each item down on the counter with unnecessary speed, including the wine bottle, which she sets down hard enough for it to make an alarming sound but not quite hard enough to break. Then she sweeps the basket off the counter and throws it clumsily but with infuriating accuracy onto the stack next to her. ‘Thirty-three twenty-eight.’ She holds her hand out while looking over my left shoulder at the next person in the queue.

  I’m struggling to pack everything into the canvas bag I’ve brought with me, but when I ask if I can buy another for five pence, she tuts pointedly before tearing one of the flimsy bags off the roll and dropping it in front of me.

  ‘Thanks.’ I delve into my bag for my purse, realising I didn’t check that I had it with me. Please let it be here. I can feel sweat starting to prickle my underarms as she sighs and drums her fingers on the edge of the till. I hook my stick on the counter so I can search with both hands, but it immediately slips and clatters to the floor. Shit! An elderly man stoops to pick it up for me. ‘Thank you so much.’ I return his smile but, aware of the assistant’s stony expression and intimidating outstretched hand, I carry on searching in my bag. I still need to finish packing, too. Ah! My hand closes around my purse – thank God. When I hold out my debit card, she sighs theatrically and nods towards the chip and pin reader. ‘Put your card into the machine, please.’ Her voice is cold and hard.

  ‘Oh, okay. Sorry.’ I decided ages ago that the best way to deal with hostility is to ignore it, stay polite and remember it could be worse. A memory flashes into my head: waiting in the chemist’s for my prescription soon after I came out of hospital, the pharmacist calling my name, and then as I reached for the bag of medication, someone grabbing my wrist. Startled, I turned round to see a blonde woman of about my age with a tattoo on her neck, pursing her lips. I honestly had no idea what was happening until the woman’s spit landed on my chin. Then she turned and wheeled her pram away while I stood there, wiping my chin with the sleeve of my jacket. A shudder of revulsion passes through me.

  As I lean over to slide my card into the slot, the half-filled carrier bag that’s hanging open over my arm catches the wine bottle and knocks it to the ground. It smashes spectacularly, splashing red wine over my boots and sending a puddle spreading across the shop floor. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say to the checkout woman, who is now shaking her head as she rings the bell. The customer behind me is bending down, wiping red wine off her very new-looking Hunter wellies with a wad of tissues. ‘Oh no, did I get you, too? I’m really sorry.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ the woman mutters, ‘no harm done.’
But she can’t hide her irritation.

  I stoop to start picking up the jagged bits of glass that are sticking up like sharks in the sea of wine. ‘Just leave it,’ the assistant snaps. She rings the bell again, calls loudly for everyone to move down to the next till and then, still without making eye contact, says, ‘Enter your pin number, please.’

  I shouldn’t let her get to me, but my hands are visibly shaking as I tap in the numbers.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  NOW

  Maybe even just a bit further into Sheffield, I think as I type Rightmove into the search bar, nearer the city centre where people are busy, where they have other things to get on with and are less interested in the lives of their neighbours. Or maybe it should be somewhere completely different, like London. That’s about as anonymous as you can get, isn’t it? I’m not sure what we’d be able to afford down there, but it wouldn’t be much. Maybe the coast would be an option – we both love the seaside. I click ‘Property for Sale’ and type in Brighton. There are some lovely houses there, places we could definitely afford. But after twenty minutes or so of looking at dream houses by the sea, I sigh, close all the windows on my screen and shut down the computer. The truth is, I don’t really want to move. In spite of everything, I still love this house. Yes, it holds memories I’d rather escape, and the idea of living somewhere where no one knows what happened is appealing, but there are good memories here, too, memories I don’t want to leave behind. Adrian hasn’t mentioned it for a bit, but I know he’d be happy to move away. Maybe I’ll want to go somewhere else eventually – I’d love to do something to make him happy after everything I’ve put him through, but it doesn’t feel right, not yet, anyway.

  While Adrian’s away, I focus on making sure I’m as prepared as I can be for the lectures and seminars that are coming up in the next few weeks. I’m so absorbed in what I’m doing that time passes quickly, but although it’s been okay here on my own, I’m glad when Thursday comes around. I’ll make something nice for dinner, stick a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc in the fridge. He’ll want to tell me all about the conference when he gets back. I love the way he stores up little things to share with me, bits of the conference he knows I’ll be interested in, or funny stuff people have said.

  I spend the morning straightening pictures and plumping cushions, then I go outside and cut the last of the sweet peas, some lavender and a few Michaelmas daisies. I like to make the house look nice for when he gets back. Upstairs, I vacuum the bedroom, make the bed and straighten the rug, then I vacuum the landing and the study. We don’t use the other rooms any more, so there’s nothing else to do up here, but instead of going straight back downstairs, I hesitate by the door that leads to the attic. I like to go up there sometimes to look through the boxes. Adrian thinks I’m torturing myself, but it isn’t like that.

  I’m just making a cheese sandwich when Adrian calls. I’m surprised, because he’ll be home tonight.

  ‘Leah, sorry, I forgot to tell you last night – I won’t be late, but I won’t be home in time for dinner. I’m going for a quick drink with Richard and some of the other delegates.’

  ‘Oh, okay.’ I try not to sound disappointed; after all, he hardly ever goes out without me. ‘So what time do you think you’ll be back? Shall I pick you up from the station? If you’re going to the pub . . .’

  ‘No, no need for you to come out. I’ll probably only have one. It’ll be nine-ish, I should think. No later than nine thirty, anyway. In time for a glass of wine with you.’

  There’s a softness in his voice, and I’m suddenly aware of how much I’ve been looking forward to this evening, to us having a nice dinner together, sharing a bottle of wine and chatting about the last few days. But why shouldn’t he go out for a drink with his colleagues for once? ‘Look, don’t rush back. I honestly don’t mind picking you up. Have a few drinks and—’

  ‘No, don’t worry. It’s horrible out – damp and foggy, and it’s getting worse by the hour. You stay inside. If I have any more than one or two, I’ll get a taxi and pick the car up tomorrow. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  There’s a pause. ‘Sure you don’t mind?’

  I do mind, but I don’t want to mind. I hate that my life has shrunk to something so small and insignificant that I’m in real danger of becoming one of those women who depend on their partners for everything, even their own identities. It’s one of the reasons I’m determined to start proper teaching again. It would be easy just to stay home and rely on Adrian, but I can’t let myself do that any longer; I’d be letting him down, apart from anything else. I take a breath. ‘No, of course not.’ I force a smile, hoping it’ll seep through into my voice. ‘Have a nice time, and I’ll see you when you get back.’

  ‘Great,’ he says. ‘See you later.’ There’s a pause. ‘Leah?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Love you.’

  We don’t automatically end every phone call with those words like some couples, so it feels like it really means something. ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I love you, too.’

  I need to pop out for a few bits before Adrian gets home but I can’t face the convenience store, so I decide to drive a bit further to the Tesco Express. The dashboard clock says it’s a quarter past two when I get in the car, so I won’t have to worry about the school traffic. Adrian was right about the weather – it’s horrible. It’s cold and drizzly, and what was just a mist this morning is thickening into proper fog now. I put the headlights on full and follow the golden beams that cut through the whiteness, driving carefully at little more than twenty miles an hour. When I see the Tesco sign, I swing into the car park. The staff here are mainly students. I recognise the boy with the dyed black hair and eyebrow rings who does his usual flirtatious thing of asking me for ID before he scans my bottle of wine, then grins and blushes. If only this was in walking distance, I’d never have to go to the local shop again. I drive back slowly through the fog. The sky has clouded over and it’s starting to feel quite gloomy. It’s only a couple of weeks before the clocks go back, I realise. I don’t mind the lead up to Christmas as the nights draw in, but I can’t bear the prolonged darkness that makes winter feel endless. As I turn into the drive, I spot a police car parked on the road outside. That’s unusual around here. I wonder what’s going on?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THEN

  I wasn’t sure I’d heard him properly. ‘Sorry?’

  We were lying in bed at his flat having spent a whole wonderful week together, lazing around in the sunshine, going for walks along the river, drinking pints in pub gardens and having sex in the afternoons. He didn’t start his new job until September, but I was due back to work today, although my first seminar wasn’t until eleven. I didn’t want to go; he didn’t want me to go. I’d never pulled a sickie before, but I was sorely tempted to call in and pretend I had a stomach bug or something. I just didn’t want to be away from him. We’d barely been apart this week, even going to the corner shop together every time we needed a pint of milk or a loaf of bread.

  ‘I said, part of me wants to marry you.’ His tone was deadly serious.

  ‘Which part?’ I half-laughed. It wasn’t an appropriate moment for a joke, but I was so gobsmacked by what he’d just said that I didn’t know how else to respond.

  ‘Well,’ he turned his head towards me on the pillow, smiling, ‘definitely the bottom half. But . . .’ He tapped his head. ‘Up here, too. And here, obviously.’ He put his hand on his heart. We’d done the I love yous that first night we spent together, both laughing and saying how crazy it was, and how surprising, but how completely and utterly truthful. We both felt it, and we couldn’t stop saying how lucky we were. How lucky that somehow, in a world full of billions of people, we’d found each other.

  ‘Hmm.’ I pretended to think about it. ‘I don’t think I’m doing anything on Saturday . . .’

  ‘Shall we do it, then?’ He took my hand and pulled it across so it rested on his stomach. His skin was warm and still slig
htly damp with sweat.

  I laughed as I turned onto my side to face him. He was still grinning, but I could see in his eyes that he was serious. ‘I don’t think you can get a licence in five days,’ I said, ‘unless you’re about to drop dead.’

  ‘How long does it take?’ He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed my palm. ‘Shall we go down to the town hall and find out?’

  I tried to think of another funny comment, but Adrian sat up, then turned and looked at me again. ‘Can you think of a single reason why we shouldn’t get married? Apart from the horrible truth of my real name, of course.’

  He’d been named Clive after his granddad, he told me last night, but no one really liked it and he’d always been known as Adrian. I laughed. ‘If that’s your only dark secret, I think I can live with it.’

  ‘Well then? I’m serious, Leah. I can hardly believe I’m saying this, but when you think about it, is there actually any reason why not?’

  I sat up, too. ‘I . . . no, I don’t think so. But we’ve only known each other two weeks. Shouldn’t we—’

  ‘We’ve known each other for years.’

  ‘Technically, yeah. But . . .’ Why was I saying ‘but’? I loved this man; we were really, truly in love. We were the other half of each other and we knew it. ‘No, you’re right. But shouldn’t we, I don’t know, maybe find out a bit more about each other first?’

  ‘Like what? We’ve talked about films, music, sport, our families. We know about each other’s previous relationships – Christ, we even know how many other people we’ve shagged.’ He ran his hand through his hair and pulled a face. ‘Though I sort of wish we hadn’t talked about that now.’

  ‘Yeah, me too. Tell you what, let’s not talk about our past sex lives from now on.’