The Child(70)

God, you look old, she thought as she caught sight of his face.

He swept through the restaurant and bent to kiss her, then held her by her shoulders to get a proper look.

“Still beautiful, Jude,” he said.

“Still a smooth talker,” she said.

“Yes, but it’s all talk these days,” he said and they both laughed.

Ice broken, they cantered through decades of life during the tricolor salad starter. Shorthanding their experiences, hooting with laughter at shared memories, and skirting round the reason they hadn’t seen each other for almost twenty years.

But, halfway through the melanzane alla parmigiana, Will asked about Emma. She’d wondered when he’d venture there.

“So,” he said, as the waiter poured more wine, “did Emma ever get back in touch?”

“Yes, actually. A couple of years ago. Out of the blue.”

“I see. So how is she doing these days?”

“So-so. Married to a man old enough to be her father.”

“Right,” he said. “Working?”

“Yes. She got herself together in the end. Took a while, but she went to university in her twenties. She’s a books editor. Working from home. Commercial rubbish, most of it, but she does it well.”

“Do you see much of her?”

“Yes. Well, sometimes. I told her you’d been in touch.”

“Did you?” he said, his hand jerking and flicking a gobbet of tomato sauce off his fork. He rubbed it into the tablecloth with his finger. “What did she say?”

“Not much,” Jude said, remembering Emma’s frozen expression. “Well, it must be difficult for her. She probably still feels guilty about coming between us.”

Will carried on chewing.

Jude knew what he was thinking. Will had tried to understand Emma’s moods and descent into teenage angst, but she had been impossible to read some days.

“You used to say she’d grow out of it. But, of course, she left before she could,” she said, disarmed by the wine and his proximity.

Will looked up quickly.

“I sometimes wonder what would have happened if we’d got married back then, like we planned, Will,” Jude added. She wasn’t sure what she expected him to say, but she longed for a glimmer of the intimacy they’d shared. For old times’ sake.

“Hmm,” he said. “Me, too.”

She didn’t believe him. He was humoring her.

He looked up and she tried to smile but it got stuck on her teeth.

Will reached out a tomato-stained hand to pat hers.

“Look, it was a difficult time for all of us,” he said. “I loved you, Jude, but Emma had soured everything.”

“She had been gone for six or seven years when you left,” Jude said quietly.

“Well, the damage had been done, I suppose. I had to get out of there,” he said, wiping his mouth with the napkin.

“Yes,” she said. And sleep with anyone with a pulse, she thought.

She didn’t think she’d have a pudding.





FIFTY-SEVEN


    Emma


TUESDAY, APRIL 24, 2012

I really don’t want to go.

“Stupid idea,” I told Harry when she rang last night to say that Toni from Woolwich Secondary had been in touch, but she wouldn’t let it go. It’s sent her off on some sort of a nostalgia trip. It’s something about our age, I suppose. I wonder if she wants to show them how far she’s come. Show the big girls who teased her and made her life a misery. But I don’t say it. She’s banging on about seeing people from school on Facebook. I haven’t looked. I’m more of a lurker, hanging round the posts, just seeing who is doing what. I tend not to advertise my presence. I’ve got nothing to say.

Emma Massingham thinks it is her baby in Howard Street would put the cat among the pigeons, wouldn’t it?

I told Harry I’d only go to the disco if she went to the doctor’s for her checkup. I knew she wouldn’t, so there would be no more discussion. But she went this morning.

When Harry rings at lunchtime, she is happier than I’ve ever heard her.

“It’s like a huge weight has been lifted, Emma. I don’t think I knew how worried I was. But the doctor is happy it’s just a cyst. It’s not going to kill me.”

“That’s brilliant. I’m so glad,” I say.

“Anyway. You’ve got to come to the disco now. You promised,” she says and I groan.

“No, really? It’ll be awful. All those girls who teased us about our terrible haircuts until we cried,” I pleaded my case.

“Well, we’ll have the chance to confront them about their appalling behavior, won’t we? I can’t wait to see their faces when we swan in. We could stage a truth-and-reconciliation hearing. Where’s Desmond Tutu when you need him?” Harry says, trying to wheedle me into it. I can’t resist her good mood, much as I want to.

“Yes, that sounds like a fun evening. Or we could dance to terrible music round our handbags in cruel shoes?”

“Now you’re talking,” Harry says. “Start thinking about your outfit and ring me tomorrow to finalize.”

“Okay.”

“Thanks for today, Emma. You always were the clever one.”