knew today was the day that he would make the decision. All he had to do was get the builders out and point somewhere, and they would pour the concrete foundations, which would solidify. End of story.
He had just set up his deckchair on the plot when his mobile rang.
‘Hello?’
‘We got the gig!’ It was Paul, the cameraman. ‘We’re in pre-production as of Monday.’
‘My God! Fantastic!’
Mike hung up and took a deep breath. He then walked towards his car and drove fast along the country road, taking several roundabouts, and rejoining the road north. Excitement brimmed inside him.This business, it was addictive. Like an alcoholic on his way to the off-licence with money in his pocket, Mike was about to be relieved of a tingling and everything else would just have to wait.
Mike left his deckchair on the land, sitting in the field in the middle of nowhere, empty.
*
Netty was on the landing chatting to her downstairs neighbour, Jim, when Mike returned. Jim owned a comic-themed shop in Glasgow and told everyone an enormous amount about it. ‘I have a vision that one day there will be Daffy mugs in my shops all over the central belt!’ he’d said to Mike the previous week. But they were not talking about Daffy when Mike approached his front door. He was sure of it. They were talking about him, and they hardly even tried to hide it.
‘Mike!’ Netty said. ‘Jim’s just saying what a fabulous job you’re doing over there. We honestly don’t know what we’d do without you!’
Mike chatted as openly as he could. He had nothing to hide, despite their apparent suspicion. The traffic was terrible through Glasgow. He’d just heard he’d landed a documentary. The playground would be finished in a week tops. The weather had cleared up, yes, and as Isla poked her head out of Netty’s front door he reassured her that his premature return did not jeopardise her pup-sitting for theweekend. She squealed with delight as Mike’s little labrador bit at her legs energetically and then ran to his owner for a scratch.
‘Let me put that begonia in my side window. It needs to face south for a bit,’ Mike said, shooing the pup back to Isla with his leg, and waving farewell to his neighbours.
‘Thanks,’ Netty said, handing over the plant to Mike. ‘Oh, and Mike,’ she said, with what seemed to him knowing eyes, ‘it will be finished for Guy Fawkes, yes?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘So we could all meet down there after tea? For fireworks?’
‘Of course.’
Netty sighed as Mike went inside. After her divorce at fifty-six, she had reached the conclusion that all men were bastards and she had lived happily with this truth for sixteen years. But then Mike moved in – good-looking, polite, helpful, honest, emotional Mike – and this had thrown her theory to the wind.
Mike shut the door and also sighed. Here we go again, he thought.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Here I go again on my own,
Goin’ down the only road I’ve ever known,
Like a drifter I was born to walk alone …
My iPod was on full blast and Glasgow was whirring by my window. I’d arranged to meet Sarah and Kyle at Milngavie Station, a thirty-minute train ride from home. I had missed travelling alone. No-one on that train knew who I was; no-one knew I had a recently stitched vagina and a nine-month-old baby. I was just a girl on a train with an iPod. Things were looking up. I was going to be all right. The sun was shining and even the suburbs of Glasgow with their grey pebble-dashed bungalows looked nice.
The music started giving me a headache after a few minutes and I had this sudden fear that Sarah and Kyle wouldn’t show up. I sensed Sarah’sdisapproval of the controlled crying fiasco. She probably thought I was a bad, ungrateful mother. She’d refused to leave that night until I’d had a shower, a coffee and two hours to sober up. I’d cried a lot and apologised, so I thought we’d left on good terms, but maybe she hated me.
Surely they would show
He had just set up his deckchair on the plot when his mobile rang.
‘Hello?’
‘We got the gig!’ It was Paul, the cameraman. ‘We’re in pre-production as of Monday.’
‘My God! Fantastic!’
Mike hung up and took a deep breath. He then walked towards his car and drove fast along the country road, taking several roundabouts, and rejoining the road north. Excitement brimmed inside him.This business, it was addictive. Like an alcoholic on his way to the off-licence with money in his pocket, Mike was about to be relieved of a tingling and everything else would just have to wait.
Mike left his deckchair on the land, sitting in the field in the middle of nowhere, empty.
*
Netty was on the landing chatting to her downstairs neighbour, Jim, when Mike returned. Jim owned a comic-themed shop in Glasgow and told everyone an enormous amount about it. ‘I have a vision that one day there will be Daffy mugs in my shops all over the central belt!’ he’d said to Mike the previous week. But they were not talking about Daffy when Mike approached his front door. He was sure of it. They were talking about him, and they hardly even tried to hide it.
‘Mike!’ Netty said. ‘Jim’s just saying what a fabulous job you’re doing over there. We honestly don’t know what we’d do without you!’
Mike chatted as openly as he could. He had nothing to hide, despite their apparent suspicion. The traffic was terrible through Glasgow. He’d just heard he’d landed a documentary. The playground would be finished in a week tops. The weather had cleared up, yes, and as Isla poked her head out of Netty’s front door he reassured her that his premature return did not jeopardise her pup-sitting for theweekend. She squealed with delight as Mike’s little labrador bit at her legs energetically and then ran to his owner for a scratch.
‘Let me put that begonia in my side window. It needs to face south for a bit,’ Mike said, shooing the pup back to Isla with his leg, and waving farewell to his neighbours.
‘Thanks,’ Netty said, handing over the plant to Mike. ‘Oh, and Mike,’ she said, with what seemed to him knowing eyes, ‘it will be finished for Guy Fawkes, yes?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘So we could all meet down there after tea? For fireworks?’
‘Of course.’
Netty sighed as Mike went inside. After her divorce at fifty-six, she had reached the conclusion that all men were bastards and she had lived happily with this truth for sixteen years. But then Mike moved in – good-looking, polite, helpful, honest, emotional Mike – and this had thrown her theory to the wind.
Mike shut the door and also sighed. Here we go again, he thought.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Here I go again on my own,
Goin’ down the only road I’ve ever known,
Like a drifter I was born to walk alone …
My iPod was on full blast and Glasgow was whirring by my window. I’d arranged to meet Sarah and Kyle at Milngavie Station, a thirty-minute train ride from home. I had missed travelling alone. No-one on that train knew who I was; no-one knew I had a recently stitched vagina and a nine-month-old baby. I was just a girl on a train with an iPod. Things were looking up. I was going to be all right. The sun was shining and even the suburbs of Glasgow with their grey pebble-dashed bungalows looked nice.
The music started giving me a headache after a few minutes and I had this sudden fear that Sarah and Kyle wouldn’t show up. I sensed Sarah’sdisapproval of the controlled crying fiasco. She probably thought I was a bad, ungrateful mother. She’d refused to leave that night until I’d had a shower, a coffee and two hours to sober up. I’d cried a lot and apologised, so I thought we’d left on good terms, but maybe she hated me.
Surely they would show
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