Something in the Water(69)

She’s outside.

She looks up, the rain misting her face, the breeze ruffling her hair. She breathes, her chest rising and falling gently. The muffled sound of traffic rumbling past down Camden Road. Wind in the trees.

When she finally looks down again, her eyes are wet with tears. She doesn’t speak. We all remain silent as we walk backward in convoy toward the road, filming her.

And as we reach the road a smile bursts bright across her face and the tears start to roll freely down her cheeks. She lifts her head and laughs.

It’s contagious. We’re all smiling now.

In the great gaping chasm of Alexa’s new freedom, our plan must come as a welcome guide rail. We’re off to Waterloo East Station, where Alexa will be getting the train down to Folkestone in Kent. Her new home. Her family home. We’re traveling down there together and we’ll be filming her on and off for the next two days. It’s a relief to be getting away from London for a night. I keep expecting Andy to burst through the door at any moment. It’s unbelievably exhausting, the diamonds burning a hole through our attic floor like Poe’s telltale heart. This trip will take my mind off that. It will focus me.

I’ve booked a car to take us to the station, but first Alexa wants to walk for a bit. So we walk in the light rain.

She stops at a café to buy a freshly squeezed orange juice. We all stand watching the bright orange crescents turn through the juicing machine and press into liquid. She sips it through a straw. She nods.

“It’s good.” She smiles.

She buys three more, one for each of us, using some of her fourteen-year-old legal tender, and we walk on.

We stop at Caledonian Park, where she finds a wet bench to sit on and we pull back, out of her sightline as she looks at the trees, the skyline, dog walkers, joggers. She takes it all in.

Finally she breaks the silence. She turns back toward us.

“Can we stop for a minute, guys? Come sit with me.” She pats the rain-darkened bench.

We’re an odd sight, the four of us, all side by side on the park bench: slender Alexa, stocky Glaswegian Duncan on sound, Steadicam operator Phil, and me. We all look out ahead across the drizzly park, Phil still filming our view, the camera resting on his lap.

“Thank you for being here,” Alexa says as we stare out at a gray London. “This is the best day of my life.”

And, yes, we capture the audio.



* * *



—

Thankfully, our train’s not too busy. We catch moments where we can along the journey: Alexa’s first newspaper, Alexa’s first G&T, Alexa’s first bar of chocolate.

Then on to the quiet village of Hawkinge, where Alexa’s father, David, stands waiting in his driveway. She fumbles at the door handle of the taxi, finds it, and springs out into the Kent countryside. Father and daughter run to each other. The ruddy-faced seventy-year-old enveloping his daughter in a bear hug. They cling together.

“Home now,” he says, like a promise. “Home safe.” He squeezes her hard.

Finally David turns back toward us, Alexa’s head fitting perfectly in the crook of his arm. Both beaming.

“Come on then, you lot. Let’s get some hot tea in you.” He motions to the house and shepherds us inside, Phil, still filming, bringing up the rear.

We leave them to it as the light starts to fade, and make our way to the glamorous lights of Folkestone and the Premier Inn, where we’ll be sleeping tonight.

Nothing’s Premier here except the prices. The soap is antibacterial foam that comes out of a wall dispenser. I call Mark, almost reluctantly. I feel so awful about hurting him yesterday, but he’ll be worried, so I force myself to call. Mark tells me he’s had some terrific news about the business. A potential client got in touch today; he’d heard about Mark’s new firm through a colleague and he said he’d be looking to move over to Mark once he’s up and running. Plus, Hector has confirmed he’s definitely going to move companies; he’s delighted to be joining Mark. It’s going to be a new start for both of them. I’m so glad he’s decided to take matters into his own hands. He’s had no new ideas about the diamonds; he’s been too busy. I tell him we’ll work something out, we always do. We just need to hold tight. I just need to finish here with Alexa and get through Eddie’s filming on Saturday. Then I’ll have time to work something out.

This new company is a real lifeline for Mark. The job market is dead right now, and I really don’t know what he would have done without this. I kiss him goodnight down the phone and go to sleep on my rock-hard bed, smiling like an idiot.



* * *



—

Alexa’s fertility clinic appointment is at 10:35 the next morning back in London. It seems funny that since we last spoke about getting pregnant, I am pregnant. My secret passenger will be joining us on our visit.

Alexa is quiet this morning, nervous, her hands tightly clasped as we sit in the Lister Hospital’s waiting room. We have permission to film today’s doctor’s appointment. I’ve done some reading around fertility, but I have no idea what to expect really.



* * *



—

After a certain amount of reshuffling we all manage to squeeze ourselves and the filming equipment into the small consultancy room.

Dr. Prahani, a well-groomed doctor in her forties with a reassuringly serious smile, offers Alexa a seat.