Scripted Love

Chapter 1

Now what?

The wind pushed Hannah’s hair across her face as she reached for the café door. Tears, either from the wind or her recent work conversation, blurred her vision and she missed, stepping onto the shoe of someone just behind her.

“I am so sorry,” Hannah said, flustered, feeling hands steadying her.

“No damage done,” a man said. He smiled down at her, his eyes dark and his brown hair, threaded with grey, pulled back into a short, thick ponytail.

“After you.” He held the door open with a smile and a tilt of his head.

Hannah ducked past into the warm garlicky smell of the café, then felt annoyed. Why couldn’t she have said something clever? Why did situations like this always leave her tongue-tied? She turned, determined to remedy that, but he was already at the counter.

She sighed. She’d missed her moment, but then, what did it matter? This was London, with everyone in their own world. She spied an empty table and made a beeline towards it, but as she approached, the man she’d bumped into arrived as well.

“I,” she began. Then paused, unsure.

“You need to order at the counter first.” He gestured towards the array of salads and pasta dishes near the front. “By then, I’m sure a table will free up.”

“I don’t, actually.” Hannah bit her thumb nail. “I mean, I don’t, ah, go to the counter.”

“Oh,” He looked taken aback, then glanced around the full seating area. “Perhaps we could share?”

Hannah felt uncomfortable. “I, okay, if that works for you.” She slid onto the banquette, shrugging her coat off, and pulled a newspaper and pen from her bag.

“Buongiorno, Signori,” a waiter appeared with a carafe of water and two glasses. “I am so sorry we are busy. What would you like?” He looked at them both.

“It’s just me, Giovanni.” Hannah felt self-conscious. “I’ll have the vegetable tart with a side of pasta salad.”

“Table service,” the man commented, taking a pair of glasses out from his old leather bag. “Should I know who you are?”

“Me?” Hannah unwrapped cutlery from a napkin, amused that this man thought she may be someone noteworthy. “I’m just a Friday regular.”

He tilted his head and raised a mocking brow. “If you say so.”

There was a silence. Hannah felt awkward. Picking up her newspaper, she folded it opened to the crossword.

“Cryptic?”

Hannah blushed, and wondered why. “Yes, they’re fun.”

“Fun? Impossible is more like it.”

A different waiter appeared with a plate. The man said something in Italian, dropping his napkin as he gestured with his hands. The waiter smiled and glanced at Hannah.

“Do you mind if I start?” the man said, turning back to Hannah.

“Buon appetito,” Hannah said.

“Oh my.” He raised an eyebrow. “Do you speak Italian?”

“That’s it, I’m afraid.” She took a sip of water. “Should I know what you said to the waiter?”

“Nothing impertinent.” He cut his panini in half. “Not in the least.”

The last sentence was said almost to himself, and Hannah watched as he put down the knife and rolled back his shirt cuffs. He was older, perhaps mid-forties judging by the grey in his hair and beard stubble. The crinkle lines around his eyes spoke of laughter and the outdoors. She picked up her pen to stop staring, and focused on her newspaper.

“Hannah?” a voice interrupted Hannah’s concentration. Looking up, Hannah saw Francesca approaching. She felt a touch of apprehension. Where had she come from?

“I didn’t notice you come in.” Francesca leaned in to air kiss Hannah, who got a tickle from her fur collar and a hint of Chanel. “It’s lovely to see you.” She glanced at Marcus.

“I…, we’re just sharing the table,” said Hannah, with an awkward smile. “How are you, Francesca?”

“Such exciting news,” said Francesca, focusing again on Hannah. “Temper, the modelling agency, wants Sabrina to do a shoot with them over half term. They’re keen for us to sign a five-year contract.”

So Francesca just wanted an audience. Of course. She’d rarely had time for her when their daughters were in primary school together, and the girls ran in different circles now at their secondary school. Hannah glanced at Francesca’s deep crimson lipstick and bit her own lip.

“Good for Sabrina.”

“It’s a great opportunity. Just think, exotic locations and billboards.”

“I suppose.”

“It’s not all anorexia and missing school. Sabrina’s too smart for that. Besides, she’s got me.” Francesca touched Hannah’s scarf on the banquette. “It’s a good colour. Exotic. Like you. How is James these days?” She glanced again at the man opposite Hannah.

“James?” Francesca had somehow put Hannah on the back foot. And exotic? “He’s, well, he’s fine. I mean, everything’s fine.” She decided she must make an effort. “Maybe the girls….”

“I need to dash,” Francesca interrupted. “Sorry to intrude. Enjoy your lunch.”

Hannah watched her leave, happy to have missed her earlier but aware that she left an energetic void, a flatness that highlighted a vague anxiety engulfing Hannah. She didn’t like women such as Francesca who regarded her as staff in the primary school where she worked, rather than another mother, which she was. They acted as if she wasn’t there or only called her over with questions about term dates. So why was she envious of their chatty huddles at the school gates, high street shopping bags looped over their forearms?

“Your lunch, I believe,” the man interrupted her thoughts.

“Funnily enough,” he added, as the waiter withdrew. “I thought you would have an accent.”

Hannah wondered why people assumed she was from somewhere else. Maybe her wild curls meant she should have an accent to match. Yet she really only knew London. It made her feel as if she was somehow failing at something.

“So what do you do,” he continued, “that puts you by yourself in a café at lunchtime?”

She remembered the earlier conversation in the school office when she’d been told her work hours would be halved. It had been casually said to her, in passing, as if it wasn’t a big deal, just half the hours with half the pay to go with it. She could picture her teenage daughter shrugging and saying, Whatever.

The only response she could muster was in her head, and she’d rushed off for her solitary Friday lunch.

She should feel liberated, with more time for James and the children. But it all seemed so dull. She thought of Francesca with her modelling daughter. She remembered the frisson of excitement before the curtain went up when she was dancing twenty, thirty hours a week trying to establish herself. Before her fractured ankle, the unplanned arrival of Charlotte and marriage to James.

She sat up straight. “I dance.”

“Now that’s interesting. I like it. And that means you’re on in the evening?”

Hannah smiled, enjoying the pretence. “Sometimes. I teach, usually in the morning, and then rehearse. Every day is different.”

He watched her for a moment, a slight smile on his face. She wondered what he saw. Whatever it was, it was a false image. A complete lie. Yet she felt calm. Maybe this was who she was supposed to be.

“So, ballet? Opera? Tap?”

“Opera is not dance,” she laughed. “Mostly contemporary, but I’m trained in ballet, jazz, all that.” She moved her plate away. “You mentioned accents, but you don’t sound English.”

“I have the passport, but my parents moved to Genoa when I was a teenager. I went to school there, then stayed in Italy to work on yachts. So a lot of travel and even more accents.” It sounded like a story he had recited many times.

“That explains your fluency then. So why are you in a café in central London on a windy day in October?” She wondered what it would be like to move to a foreign country with your parents as a teenager, rather than have them die in a car accident as hers had. “And is the sailing why you seem a little tanned?”

“I do spend as much time on boats as I can, but it’s been almost a month now.” He smiled at her. “I’m an advertising consultant now though, a serious landlubber.” He leaned forward. “Look, something intrigues me.”

She waited, a strange flutter inside her. The buzz of the restaurant disappeared. Then he smiled and tapped her newspaper. “These cryptics are such a tease. If it wouldn’t be too forward of me, could you explain the clues you’ve already done?”

She looked at the heavy watch on his wrist, the well-trimmed nails and then up into his dark eyes. There was a long moment, when she couldn’t think of what to say, then she blinked, and held out her hand.

“I’m Hannah. Let’s see what we can do.”

He took her hand and brought it towards him. Hannah had a breathless moment wondering how it would feel if he turned her hand over and pressed his lips to the pulse on her wrist. Instead he just squeezed her fingers gently and said, “Hannah, a pleasure. I am Marcus.”

Chapter 2

Her phone rang just after seven.

“James,” Hannah answered, putting the two dirty plates into the sink. “Should I put the dinner in?” She had to shout to be heard.

“Sorry? Damn it’s noisy. The evening’s just kicking off.”

“So you’re not home to eat then.” Hannah gnawed her top lip.

“Don’t get up my nose. I told you this morning that the faculty meeting included dinner.”

He forgot to communicate, and somehow it was her fault. He lived his life like the charismatic, carefree artist he was when they met, knowing she would manage the house, the children, the whole domestic scene. Annoyance rose in her like a wave.

“You didn’t say anything, James,” Hannah said. “In fact, I didn’t even see you this morning. You were in the shower when I left.”

She hung up and flicked the phone to silent.

Hannah stood for a moment, wondering why she so often found herself alone. The sounds from the other room did little to dispel her edginess. She closed the adjoining door and put on some salsa. Music took her to a place where her heart pounded, her breath caught and time itself became long and sinuous and ethereal.

“Toby? Charlotte?” Hannah finally called. The house was quiet.

She went into the living room. Charlotte was perched on the radiator, looking out the window with a sketch pad on her knees while Toby was lying on the floor, his head on a stack of school workbooks.

“What are you doing?” Hannah asked.

“Maths,” said Toby, his eyes closed.

“By lying on it?”

He sat up quickly and scowled at her. “I’m studying for the stupid test.”

“It’s not until January, sweetheart,” Hannah said, moving a lock of hair out of his eyes. “And Miss Clough does a good job with her year sixes. You’ll get into a school.”

Toby slouched over to the couch. Hannah looked at him sitting there with his arms crossed, his fair skin and straight hair reminding her of James, although he had her dark hair and eyes.

There was a loud thump. Charlotte had dropped her sketchbook onto the floor.

“Why is everyone in a mood tonight?” Hannah said. “How about a game of racing demons? Find the cards, and I’ll get some crisps.”

“Honestly?” Charlotte swung her feet down and stood up. “Like I have time for that?”

“Why not, sweetheart? You have the whole weekend for your art,” said Hannah.

“You don’t remember that tomorrow I have that ‘special field trip’?” Charlotte made quotation marks with her fingers. “To Burning Bitches, or some other fucked-off place.”

“Must you speak like that?”

Charlotte rolled her eyes.

Later, the children in bed, Hannah sat in the dark living room. The house was quiet. The wind pushed hard against the loose-fitting windows. Her phone lay on the coffee table amidst the decks of cards and empty crisp packets. She stared at it. No missed calls from James. Why would there be? No one would be phoning her for anything at all. And yet there she was, glancing at the phone on a regular basis.

She felt as though she’d just missed something, catching only a glimpse from the corner of her eye. Like a car in her blind spot, suddenly accelerating past her with a blast of the horn and gone before she could react, leaving her upset and anxious at the near miss.

Pulling her phone charger out of her bag, Hannah noticed the newspaper. How was it they’d spent two hours together over a crossword? She found herself smiling at the memory, and wondered what he was doing right now. She shook her head and headed upstairs. Out with friends, probably, or at an event, not home alone.

Hannah heard a groan from the bedroom. She hung up her wet towel, made a wry face at herself in the mirror, then walked over to where James had rolled onto his back.

“Back away. I’m toxic,” he muttered, eyes still closed.

“Your morning breath won’t kill me, not after fifteen years.” She pulled the window blind up a few inches. “I was up earlier with Charlotte, so the coffee’s on already.”

“Jesus.” James lifted himself into a sitting position. “Cigars get me every time.”

“You could just say no.”

James swung his legs out of bed and leaned his elbows on his knees, rubbing his face.

Hannah looked at his broad back, sheet-wrinkled and pale. She lay her hand on his shoulder, gently, without moving. In the silence, Hannah heard the whimper of the neighbour’s dog left in the garden, she felt James’ breath swelling his naked torso. Her hand looked odd against his smooth paleness, the soft gold of her wedding band melding with his skin.

“Right.” James lurched up. “Shower.”

“Hannah?” She heard James’ voice from the kitchen.

“Doing laundry.” She pulled a load of Toby’s sports clothes out of the washer. “So. A good evening?” she added as he appeared in the doorway. “I did have dinner ready, you know.”

“I told you about last night.” James hovered, one hand on the door frame. “Maybe it was when Deirdre came over on Tuesday. Or Monday. You know, when we talked about Paris at half term.”

Paris? At half term? Hannah felt anxiety tighten around her chest like a band. He seemed determined to believe he told her everything, but he didn’t. She paused, wondering why she felt nervous when she had to contradict him.

“You really didn’t, James. Maybe you had the conversation in your head, or with someone else. I don’t know. I knew nothing about dinner last night. Or Paris at half term. Why wasn’t I involved in that decision?” She flicked a look at him.

“What would you have said? No? Who says no to Paris?” He gave a snort. “How about ‘thanks for finding us a place’, or would you have sorted it?” He turned away.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” Hannah dropped her hands into the basket of wet laundry and raised her eyes to the ceiling. “I was just alone all evening.” She went into the kitchen. “At least tell me about Paris.”

“Hassan has offered us his flat, two bedrooms, near St. Germain.” James sat down at the table. “You said there was coffee?”

“I need to sort the rest of the laundry,” Hannah said.

“I thought you wanted to talk about Paris,” he called as she returned to the laundry room.

Hannah started to fill a bucket, and thought about Paris. She’d done a performance there when she was barely twenty, when the future was still full of possibility.

Turning off the tap, laundry soap in hand, she heard James go into the front hall and shout up the stairs.

“Toby? Charlotte?”

“Charlotte left ages ago for a field trip,” Hannah called. She glanced at her watch. It had just gone 10 am. The coach was likely at Burnham Beeches already.

“Toby? How about a second breakfast at Café de Paris? Seems appropriate,” he added in a quieter voice.

“Awesome.” Toby thumped down the stairs. The coat cupboard door banged. “Is Mum coming?”

“She said she’s too busy.”

Hannah had that tense feeling that she used to get playing hide-and-seek as a child, when the person searching was standing just the other side of a curtain. Cold air swirled around her ankles. James must be standing with the door open, then it closed forcefully. Was all this because she wouldn’t get him a coffee?

Returning to the kitchen, Hannah spied the almost-completed crossword in her handbag. She lay it on the counter and examined the doodles in the margins, the scrambled letters, the crossed-out words.

Next to beatific, Marcus had written happy pope?

Yesterday’s time with Marcus had been lively yet relaxed. At one point, Marcus threw the pen down and tilted his chair back, his head lowered. Then he smiled up at her and said, “This is too hard. Let’s go sailing instead.” She hadn’t said anything. He leaned forward. “The feel of a boat on the waves, moving with the ocean, and the wind. There’s a potency that is pure magic.”

She’d been taken aback by the seriousness, so at odds with their recent bantering. She’d laughed lightly, saying, “maybe tomorrow,” and the moment had dissolved. She wondered what it must be like to watch a sunrise over the water, to taste salt on her lips.

His fountain pen ink bled into the newsprint, and then Hannah noticed a mobile number written next to a sketch of a yacht. She shivered. Her great-aunt would have said someone had just walked over her grave. Or maybe, she thought, it was a prickle of her conscience.

She picked up her phone.