Page 12 of The Three of Us
He made his choice, went home to Molly and married her, and that was that. Of course, he has wondered sometimes what might have happened if he had not been made so suddenly and unexpectedly redundant, if he had stayed in London for longer, if their paths had carried on crossing…
He can’t deny that he had fancied her rotten, from the moment he had first seen her. Carly was so unlike other girls he had known – the country types, all ruddy-faced and wellie-boot practical, or the few he briefly dated or bedded, all let loose from home for the first time and hell-bent on drinking themselves stupid, while he was away at uni. He can’t define what it was, but something about Carly had jumped up and grabbed him by the throat, taking him by surprise, sending the sort of shockwaves through him that had scared the life out of him.
He still doesn’t know how he managed to hold himself back when they had taken that moonlit stroll by the river, how he had stopped that long lingering kiss from developing into so much more, how he had kept his hands under control and stopped them doing what he longed for them to do, exploring every inch of her. But a quickie in some dark alley, or sneaking her into Syd’s, or finding a cheap hotel for a few hours, none of that had felt like the right thing to do. She deserved better, and so did Molly.
He watches her walk away from him and out through the park gates, never taking his eyes off her, the remains of his lunch uneaten at his side and the work report lying unread in his lap. What next? Meeting again is far more than just a possibility now. It’s unavoidable, inevitable. They are working in the same building and he could run into her again at any moment. The thought should worry him but it doesn’t. It excites him. In more ways than one, he realises, adjusting the pile of papers spread across his lap so no passer-by will notice the erection that is suddenly pressing hard against his trousers. It is only the second one he can ever remember experiencing while wearing an office suit. And the first? That had been down to Carly too. That night by the river.
Oh God, what is this woman doing to him? He hardly knows her, but he wants to. He wants to, so much.
‘Good day?’ Molly is bustling around in the tiny kitchen when he gets home. She has obviously been baking because the whole flat smells so strongly of cake mixture that he feels a sudden urge to grab the mixing bowl and start licking it, the way he always did when he was a kid.
‘It was okay,’ he says, preferring not to talk, or even think, about the office now he’s away from it. ‘Something smells good.’
‘It’s cherry and sultana. Your favourite.’
He’s surprised to hear that he has a favourite. Cake is cake, as far as he’s concerned, and he’ll eat it. Whatever flavour it happens to be.
‘You know me so well,’ he says, his gaze scouring the worktops for the bowl and failing to find it. She’s so super-efficient, his wife, that she’s already washed everything up and put it away. ‘So, why the cake? Are we celebrating something?’
‘No. I was just in a baking mood, that’s all. But talking of celebrations reminds me, it’s your mum’s birthday coming up. I thought maybe we could go home for the weekend and see her? Well, see everyone, I mean. I’d like to see my mum and dad too.’
‘We could, I suppose. But without a car…’
‘The train’s easy enough. Not as if we need to take a lot with us, is it? Although I would like to take her a birthday cake.’
‘Ah, I get it now. This one’s a trial run, right? But you do know she’s not a fan of sultanas?’
‘Of course I do. No, I was thinking of something a bit fancier than this. Something lemony, maybe with a hint of ginger, with royal icing and some roses on the top. If I’m going to try selling posh cakes from home, I need to start experimenting, getting plenty of practice.’
‘You’re really going to do it? The cakes thing? It’s nice to know you listen to my ideas sometimes!’
‘Maybe. I’m not sure yet. There’s a lot to think about.’ She leans over and plants a kiss on his cheek. ‘But it beats having to find a proper job. Now, go and get out of that suit and I’ll make you a cup of tea to go with the cake. I haven’t started on any dinner yet.’
‘Too busy cake-making to think about proper food, eh?’
‘Something like that,’ she says.
‘You all right, Mol? You look a bit pale.’
‘Fine. A bit of a headache, that’s all.’
‘We’ll get a takeaway then,’ he says, going into the bedroom and stepping out of his trousers. They lie on the carpet, the striped cloth a puddle of crumpled grey, zip open like a gaping mouth, and he can’t help but think about lunchtime, the park, Carly…
‘That’ll be nice,’ Molly says, following him into the room and flopping onto the bed, watching him as he undoes his tie. ‘I really don’t feel like cooking. Something light though, eh? I don’t fancy a pile of greasy chips tonight.’
He slips out of his shirt and lies down next to her on top of the covers. ‘So, what do you fancy?’ he mutters, his nose burrowing into her hair, his lips grazing her ear. She likes that. Well, usually she does. But this evening she pushes him away.
‘I told you. I’ve got a headache,’ she says. ‘The kettle’s on. Go and have your cake and I’ll be out in a minute. I’m going to ring Mum and tell her we’re coming down. Friday night okay with you? I know the trains will be busy but we’ll get an extra night that way, won’t we?’
‘Yeah. Sure. Whatever you think best.’
Jack pulls on a pair of old jeans and a T-shirt and goes back to the kitchen and makes himself a cup of tea. It’s gone very quiet in the bedroom. He thought Molly was meant to be ringing her mum, but he can’t hear her voice. He cuts a big slice of cake and stirs the teabag around in his tea, then pops his head round the door to ask if she wants a cuppa too, but she’s not on the phone. She’s lying on her side, her mouth slightly open, her hair falling over one eye, and she’s fast asleep.
Jack is half disappointed and half relieved not to run into Carly again over the next few days. He likes the thought of her being around but he needs time to get used to the idea and, luckily, he’s too busy at work to stop and think about it, or her, too much.
He pulls the photo of Molly out of his drawer, wipes the dusty glass on his sleeve, and puts it on display on his desk. Not that he needs reminding that he’s married, but he does it anyway. Steady, reliable, honest. That’s what he wants to be, and the way he wants others to see him. It’s the right image, he decides. The version of Jack Doherty that fits in a place like this.
All he has to do now is put Carly Young back where she belongs – back into that box in his head – and leave her there, just as he has done, mostly successfully, ever since he last saw her five years ago. He’s a different man now – a married man – and even though sometimes it feels like he’s just going through the motions, doing all the grown-up responsible stuff that’s expected of him, waiting for some kind of real, exciting life to begin, he refuses to forget that one simple undeniable fact. He made a choice, and he’s sticking by it. Carly’s in the past, and she has to stay there. He doesn’t want to do anything stupid, anything he knows he will only come to regret. Well, okay, maybe he does want to, but he’s not going to. He shakes his head as if that will somehow shake her out of his thoughts, turns his attention back to the screen in front of him and puts himself firmly back into work mode.