'What's that?'
'A pregnancy test. The cross means it's positive.'
'You're pregnant?'
She nodded.
Tom stared at the top of her down-turned head, found himself focusing on the individual strands of hair poking through her scalp. He felt like he was looking through a microscope. 'But that's… that's perfect. It'll all work out brilliantly. I've got this plan, you see. We'll pack everything in and move to Cornwall. There's this cafe for sale. It's so beautiful — it's wooden, painted a pale blue. It's got this great big veranda. We can live by the beach, raise our child there, away from all this filth and pressure.'
Charlotte looked up. 'Cornwall? What the hell are you on about Cornwall for? Cafe? I'm only a few weeks late for my period. What if this stupid test is wrong?'
Tom realized he'd got ahead of himself. 'No there's more to it than that. I've had a disaster at work. Something serious. Resignation serious.'
'Is that why that director has been ringing?'
'Yeah, but it doesn't matter, 'Tom replied, brightening his voice. 'Charlotte, I'm desperate to pack it in. You know that. I'll work a settlement out with them and we can use the cash from it along with the money from selling this place to get out. Downsize. I've worked it all out.'
Very slowly Charlotte began to shake her head. 'I knew you were desperate to get through the run-up to the Commonwealth Games. And you've done it — look. 'She waved a hand at the dancers on the TV. 'The Games are starting in ten minutes. What's all this stuff about Cornwall? You never mentioned about packing the job in completely.'
'Well, I thought it was obvious. Sorry. It's been intense lately. But they've already begun to work out our next set of targets. It doesn't stop, Charlotte, it just goes on and on and fucking on. I feel so trapped.' He thought about the sensation of the spider's web around his head.
Looking agitated, she reached for a cigarette.
Tom placed his hand over the pack. 'Charlotte, do you think you should?'
Angrily she sat back and took a deep breath.
'Don't look so sad.' He placed a reassuring hand on her stomach. 'This is such perfect timing. We can start a new life… a family. Everything.'
She grabbed his hand and threw it back on his lap. 'I'm not having this thing!' she said, tears filling her eyes. 'How dare you presume that? I'm twenty-two for God's sake. I've got my life to live. Babies?' She let out a snort of disgust. 'You're bloody joking!' She leaned forwards, grabbed a cigarette and lit up.
Tom stared at her. 'What do you mean? It's our child. Ours.' Bizarrely, an image of the diving instructor from the Seychelles flashed through his mind.
She stood up and snarled, 'It's not a child. It's a blip, a few cells … a cross on this thing.' She waved the pregnancy tester in his face. 'One pill and it's gone.'
'Charlotte,' he moaned, hands thrust anxiously between his knees. 'You can't destroy it. It's our future.'
She held up both palms to him. 'Slow the fuck down. What the hell were you thinking?' Her cheeks grew red as anger began to take hold. 'You plan all this without telling me a thing?'
'I meant to. I was waiting for the right time, that was all. Charlotte, please — it could be so perfect.'
'My future's here, in Manchester. Not in some windswept wooden shack serving cups of bloody tea.'
Tom looked down at the carpet. 'What's this city got that's so great?'
She put a finger on her lower lip and began counting with her other hand. 'Well, let me see. Restaurants, bars, delis, coffee shops, beauty salons.' She ran out of fingers and carried on anyway. 'Nightclubs, nightlife, life full stop! Selfridges has just opened and there's a Harvey Nichols opening next year.'
Tom said very quietly, 'You'd destroy our baby because a Harvey fucking Nichols is opening next year?'
'Don't call it a baby! It barely exists yet!'
'You'll kill our baby because it might ruin your shopping? You selfish, self-centred, self-important bitch.'
'I'm not listening to this.' She began walking from the room.
He pursued her, weeks of tension suddenly finding an outlet. 'Do you realize how shallow you sound? How shallow you are? We've got a chance to build a meaningful life — not one based around what you purchased in town today — and you can't be arsed because you don't want to miss out on lounging around in the sports centre, going shopping, eating in nice restaurants and taking expensive drugs!'
She changed her mind about going upstairs and grabbed her jacket and handbag, heading for the front door instead.
'Where are you going!' he yelled. Bounding forwards, he grabbed her arm. She spun round and said mockingly, 'Late night shopping.'
Without thinking he slapped her.
'Don't you fucking touch me!' she screamed, tears spilling down her face. 'You go to bloody Cornwall. Don't expect me to come.'
She stormed out of the house, slamming the door shut behind her.
Tom stood, fists clenching and unclenching, nostrils flaring as breath shot in and out of his nose. He turned round and climbed the stairs two at a time. Rummaging around in his wardrobe, he found the packet of powder and tapped a large pinch of it into the palm of his hand. Greedily he licked it up.
Back downstairs he'd just got the stopper out of a bottle of single malt when the phone rang. Grabbing it, he breathlessly demanded, 'Charlotte?'
'Tom?'
'Who's this?'
'Andrew Soloman. I've been trying to get hold of you all afternoon. What the bloody hell happened in Manchester today? I've had the top guy at X-treme UK on to me. They've pulled the business. They've been on to Centri-Media and there's no promotion for their chewing gum booked into Piccadilly station. They say we've invoiced them sixteen grand for that job, and they sent the cheque weeks ago. Where's the money, Tom?'
'I have it — it's just that the slot at the station wasn't booked. They can have a refund.'
'A refund? They had an entire promotion arranged, luxury holiday to Malaysia, boxes of a special limited edition flavour made. We're liable for all those costs. Too right they'll get a refund — and if the cheque hasn't been touched, you might just avoid being prosecuted for fraud.'
Tom was staring at the TV, but not seeing a thing. 'Listen, they can have their money back. Every penny of it. Just tell them there was a mix-up. Shit happens, you know?'
'Shit happens? Are you drunk?'
'What do you mean?'
'This is it, you realize that, don't you Tom? They want blood, so you're out of here. We're taking the Porsche back and you get three months' money as a senior account handler.'
'Actually, I'm the managing director, in case you've forgotten. That's six months' money and my profit-related bonus.'
'You think there'll be any profits after this fuck-up? And check your contract, Tom — it's another thing you forgot to sign. As far as we're concerned, you're still a senior account handler.'
Realizing he'd lost it all, Tom started laughing down the phone, the hysterical whooping of a hyena. The handset fell from his hand and he staggered through the French windows onto the patio. Swigging directly from the bottle, he was just able to make out The Plough above him before fireworks from the opening ceremony filled the sky with showers of bronze, silver and gold.
Chapter 19
2 November 2002
Jon's car pulled to a halt by the incident van positioned at the top of forty-six Lea Road. It had started drizzling a couple of hours earlier and, leaning forwards for a better view of the sky, Jon could see the motionless layer of cloud stretching away like an expanse of concrete in all directions. 'Great,' he muttered to himself. He opened the car door and jogged over to the van, noticing the Lexus tucked in beside it.