‘Me too,’ I say, trying to dispel the disappointment and focus on this beautiful man, my new lover.
Just before he turns the car into our lane, he pulls over onto a grassy verge. I look at him and raise my eyebrows.
‘I know you don’t want your children to see you doing this, so–’ He pulls me towards him and kisses me.
‘Do you have to leave?’ I ask eventually.
‘I don’t want to go either,’ he says, his fingers creeping up my thigh. He groans and sits back in his car seat. ‘But I have to. Too much work. Let me know when you’re next free, and please don’t leave it too long.’ He smiles, that little dimple in his right cheek sending waves of lust through my stomach. Goodness, I have regressed into my teenage self.
‘Why are you back so early? Didn’t it go well?’ Cassie looks up at me, her make-up-free forehead creased with concern. She has a pile of school exercise books laid out on our kitchen table.
‘The kids?’ I mouth.
‘Still asleep.’ She rolls her eyes.
I take a Nespresso capsule out of the larder and pop it into the machine. I am so exhausted, I need caffeine urgently.
‘It went brilliantly. Better than brilliant, actually. He has to work today and was apologetic that he couldn’t be with me. He wants to see me this coming week.’
‘That’s fantastic, Lydia. I’m so happy for you. Come on, then. Spill the beans!’
I carry my coffee to the table and sit next to her.
‘Well, we walked along the promenade–’
‘Wait! Let’s FaceTime Fiona. She’ll want to know what happened, and then you won’t need to tell the story twice.’
‘Ok,’ I say wearily. Sometimes I feel a little pang of jealousy towards Fiona. It used to just be Cassie and me against the world, but recently we’ve morphed into a trio. It’s not that I don’t like Fiona. I do; she’s amusing and we have plenty in common, and I couldn’t have done without her in organising Adam’s funeral. It’s just this new dynamic is slightly odd.
A moment later Fiona’s face fills Cassie’s phone.
‘How was it?’ she asks eagerly.
I fill them in on all of the details – well, not all of it. The most they get out of me is that he is a wonderful lover.
‘So it was perfect?’ Fiona says. I note an edge to her voice. Envy perhaps? I don’t blame her. It doesn’t seem fair that I have found a new lover so quickly whilst she and Cassie have been single for ages and are still on the lookout.
‘Yes, it was perfect. I can’t quite believe it!’
Later on, when Cassie has left, I lounge around, doing very little. I can’t stop thinking about Patrick, how he made love to me, how perfect he is. And I also can’t stop thinking about his sister, that haunting photograph of her looking so desperately sick. To think that her life depends on whether or not they can raise the money is heartbreaking.
Fifty grand. It’s a hell of a lot of money, but we have it. I wouldn’t even need to sell stocks and shares. In fact, a lot more than that is sitting in cash in my bank account, earning next to no interest. I could give it to Patrick or lend it to him. It seems so wrong that I have all of that money and they have nothing.
And then I wonder. I’ve read all those stories about scammers and dating. What if he’s just with me because he knows I’m wealthy? Only last month, I read about a poor woman being scammed out of a million pounds by her supposed lover, who turned out to be a young man working in an online dating fraud business in Ghana. But no. Patrick isn’t like that. He’s loving towards me. We are in a physical relationship.
I grab my laptop and open up Google. What was it? MPQ something. The drug comes up. MPQ-202. It’s a brand new treatment, being hailed as a miracle cure for inoperable cancers, but because it hasn’t yet completed all of the rigorous testing required by the NHS, patients have to pay for it privately. And Patrick is correct. It does cost around twenty-five thousand pounds a month.
I lean back in my chair. There can’t be a better way to spend our money than saving someone’s life.
I send Patrick a text.
Thanks so much for a fantastic time. Can you send me your bank account details, please?
I have to wait for over an hour until I get a response.
Can’t stop thinking about you. Why do you want my bank acc info? Px
I want to send you something for your sister.
No way!
I gulp. I hope I haven’t offended him. Please don’t take this the wrong way. I just want to help. It can be a loan. Let me pay for the next two months of her treatment. Pay me back when you can.
I can see that he has read the text, but he doesn’t answer. I wait, holding the phone in my hand as if it is combustible, silently praying that I haven’t overstepped the mark. I stand up to go to the kitchen, to switch on the kettle, and then the phone beeps with an incoming text.
Don’t know what to say except thank you. Blown away. I’ll be able to repay you in three months. Thank you. You’re an angel. x
12
It’s Saturday evening, and Patrick parks in front of a newly built block of flats. The entrance hall is plush, with a royal blue, thick-piled carpet and two lifts encased in a wall of marble. He presses a gold button to call the lift, and when we’re inside, he presses the button to the third floor. The back wall is mirrored. I wonder if he will kiss me in here, but he doesn’t. He catches my eye and we smile at each other. We exit the lift onto an equally plush corridor with walls lined with abstract paintings, large splashes of reds and oranges.
‘I’m here on the left,’ he says as he inserts a key into the door of flat number 308. He holds the door open for me. ‘Welcome to my humble abode.’
I’m not sure what I expected, but it wasn’t this. There is a small entrance hall and a door straight ahead that opens onto a large living room. The floors are a pale wood, possibly a good quality laminate. The walls are all painted white and the room is so big, the black leather sofa and two armchairs seem almost lost in it. A wide window looks out onto a park, and it lets in plenty of light. On the wall above the sofa is an impressive oil painting; a seascape in dusty blues and greys about four feet long. The kitchen is open plan to the living room: sleek, shiny black granite countertops and a wall of shiny white cupboards. With the exception of one wooden bowl holding a couple of apples and a banana, and a single red rose still wrapped in plastic, there are no things out on the countertops. Not even a kettle or a toaster. The stainless-steel hob sparkles, and it looks as if there is still a sticker on the front of the oven. It has the feel of a hotel combined with a show flat.
He must notice my frown because he laughs. ‘I’m away for business so often, I’m rarely here. If the kitchen doesn’t look used, it’s because it isn’t. It helps that I’ve got a great cleaner who swoops in after me and cleans away any mess. I’m afraid I’m lazy and often call for a takeaway.’ He picks up the rose and hands it to me. ‘This is for you.’
Then he turns around and starts walking down a corridor to the left. I follow.
‘This is my bedroom,’ he says, holding the door open. A super king-size bed is covered with a dark grey throw; orange-and-grey cushions sit proudly plumped up leaning against the grey velour headboard, just as one would find in a luxury hotel. Built-in cupboards line the wall.