Our Song Read online

  He stepped back onto the ice.

  The taxi dropped him off at the corner, a short walk from the department store.

  ‘Is here okay, mate?’ The man glanced up from the screen, where he had just been checking his emails. The Oxford Street pavements were heaving with last-minute Christmas shoppers, which was only to be expected given that the holiday was less than a week away.

  ‘Yes, that’s fine,’ murmured the man, snapping shut his phone case and distractedly pulling a note from his wallet. He never even glanced at the fare displayed on the cab’s meter, just handed over his money, with an automatic ‘Keep the change’.

  The cabbie smiled at the generous tip, and quickly pocketed the money in case the man might have selected the wrong colour note by mistake. ‘Happy Christmas, mate,’ he added, as the man straightened from his window. The man just nodded, his attention now all on what had caught his eye when they’d pulled up at the corner. Outside the department store he was bound for there was a small brass band, or orchestra or ensemble (he never did manage to work out what the difference was). Whatever it was called, there were people with an assortment of musical instruments, positioned in a large semi-circle behind music stands, following the wildly enthusiastic arm gesticulations of their conductor. The sound of Christmas carols filled the street, drowning out the London traffic and making even those who chose not to stop and listen walk past with a nostalgic smile.

  He began to walk towards the store, hampered by the flow of the crowds. But after only twenty metres, an uncomfortable tight and breathless sensation hit him like a small fiery comet right in the middle of his chest. It was so sudden and unexpected he drew to an abrupt halt, causing a tattooed pierced man in a leather jacket walking two paces behind to cannon right into him.

  ‘You can’t fucking do that in the middle of the street,’ the tattooed man snapped, clearly not at all affected by the wave of Christmas good cheer that was infecting the assembled crowds from the music.

  ‘Sorry,’ muttered the man, more worried by the disturbing recurrence of this unexplained symptom than he was by the man’s anger. He was definitely coming down with something. This was the third time this had happened in the last couple of days. He reached out and laid a supporting hand on a nearby lamppost and waited for the feeling to pass. It was cold; the forecast had threatened snow showers for the afternoon and evening, yet he suddenly felt incredibly hot. He had to resist the urge to tear off his expensive woollen topcoat and the jacket of his suit. He lifted his free hand and ran it across his mouth and upper lip, and wasn’t surprised at all to feel the small beads of perspiration that had broken out there. Bugger it. He must be coming down with that flu bug that had been doing the rounds at the office. Just his damn luck to catch something right before the Christmas break. Well, he still had just over a week before they were due to fly – that should give him plenty of time to get over it. He smiled, and patted his inside pocket where the airline tickets to New York – his wife’s surprise Christmas present – were hidden. She had been wanting to go back for ages, but he’d always made an excuse and put it off. But what was the point of working as hard as the pair of them did, if you couldn’t just blow the schedule, and treat yourself once in a while? He smiled again, imagining the look on her face when she saw what he had done. He’d booked them into the fanciest hotel, got great seats for a Broadway show and was prepared to sit by patiently and let her sight-see or shop to her heart’s content. And if that wasn’t true love, then he didn’t know what was.

  In less than a minute the weird feeling in his chest had passed. He reminded himself to pick up a packet of paracetamols when he was in the store and slipped once more into the flow of foot traffic. There was a throng of people around the musical group, some were even singing along. It made reaching the glass revolving doors of the store a more lengthy procedure, forcing him to stand and wait his turn for several moments. His back was to the group, he wasn’t a musician – far from it – but when the trumpet notes sounded out loud and clear behind him, he instantly recognised the instrument. He felt once more that familiar compulsion, which even after all these years he could never resist. His head turned and his eyes went straight to the person playing the gleaming brass instrument. It was involuntary, a reflex; he did it every time he was at a show, a concert, or any live performance. It was as though the strains of the instrument called him like a siren song which he was powerless to ignore. He’d done it for years, he probably always would. His eye lifted to the face of the musician playing the instrument on the bustling London street. It wasn’t her. It never was.

  The curtain of hot air blasting down from the overhead vents as he entered the store made him feel like he was entering a greenhouse. The smell of a hundred different perfumes and cosmetics swirling above the shoppers in a cloying cocktail of fragrances just compounded that. For a moment he regretted his decision to come shopping in the middle of the day, but his diary was full of meetings and appointments right up until the office officially shut down for the holiday season, and this was the only free time he had over the next few days.

  He was propelled away from the entrance on a wave of shoppers and went with the flow, until he found the section he was looking for. There were undoubted advantages in being over six foot tall, and being able to see over the heads of a crowd was definitely one of them. He managed to successfully weave among the ditherers and browsers, avoided being sprayed with some cologne he had no interest in sampling, and found the counter with the jewellery concession he wanted.

  He was looking for one last Christmas gift for his wife, to join the collection of glossy bags that were already hidden at the back of his wardrobe. They were both guilty of going a little over the top for birthdays, anniversaries and, of course, at Christmas too. It would be easy to say that they did this because they were over-compensating for the thing that was missing from their lives, but the truth was much simpler than that. He just liked spoiling her.

  He stood before the sparkling array of designer jewellery that was securely locked away within a glass cabinet. He’d been quietly pleased with himself for having remembered her casually commenting that she liked this particular range a few months ago. But he hadn’t been expecting there to be such a vast selection to choose from. He was going to need some help.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  He looked up and smiled at the female assistant, who in turn took in the tall, extremely good-looking man with the piercing blue eyes standing at her station, and returned his smile with added interest. The man genuinely didn’t notice the way she stepped a little closer to the counter or the slight dilation of her pupils as she looked at him. He wasn’t arrogant or conceited, but her reaction wasn’t unusual. Women were drawn to him; he’d never had to work hard in that department. Except for once, a voice he tried never to listen to reminded him. He doused the spark of the memory, the way you would a fire, instantly and thoroughly before it had a chance to catch. Damn that trumpet in the band, he thought irritably.

  ‘Yes, please. If you could. I’m looking for a gift for my wife.’

  The disappointment on her face was just visible before she dipped her head. ‘What exactly were you thinking of? We have some lovely necklaces and bracelets that have just come in. Would you like to start there?’ The man nodded with a small helpless shrug, and the assistant laughed. ‘Don’t worry, we help lots of husbands pick out a special gift for their wives. I’m sure we’ll find something that’s just perfect for her.’

  Fifteen minutes later he was no closer to making a decision. He absently ran a finger inside the collar of his shirt as he bent low to study the jewellery laid out on a blue velvet cloth. It seemed to be getting incredibly warm in the store, and he wondered if the heat had just been ramped up. In addition, the high-voltage lamp hanging low over the counter to showcase the jewellery was beating down with scorching intensity on his head. He had broken out in a hot sweat, drenching his entire body in clammy perspiration, and really wished he’d sto
pped to buy himself those paracetamols before doing his shopping. He was sure he would have felt better by now, if only he’d have popped a couple of those.

  He had a sudden pressing desire to get out of the overcrowded, over-warm and over-priced store. He wanted – no, needed – fresh air, cold fresh air. He could feel a pulse pounding rapidly in his neck, and when he spoke it was a real effort to draw up enough oxygen to breathe at the same time.

  ‘I’ll take that one,’ he said, jabbing his finger randomly at one of the necklaces.

  ‘Certainly,’ said the assistant lifting it up from the surrounding items. ‘Would you like it gift-wr—’ She broke off, her voice suddenly full of concern. ‘Are you feeling alright?’

  He tried to find a reassuring smile, but the effort triggered a curious shooting pain in his jaw. ‘I’m fine,’ he lied, bracing one arm on the counter, because all at once he didn’t trust that his legs were up to the job of supporting him. ‘It’s just a little warm in here.’

  ‘Can I get you a glass of water or something?’

  The man nodded his reply, wanting to conserve the breath in his lungs, which seemed to be struggling to do their job. What kind of flu is this? he thought worriedly.

  He never even heard the woman ask one of her colleagues to fetch a glass of water, because he was far too concerned with not keeling over right there in the aisle, and making a total spectacle of himself in front of the hordes of shoppers.

  ‘There’s a chair over there,’ the assistant volunteered, lightly touching her hand to his elbow and gesturing to a red velvet-covered seat beside the adjacent counter.

  ‘No, that’s okay,’ he answered, unaware his words were coming out through lips that were rapidly turning more blue than pink. Now she was really worried.

  ‘Would you like me to call the manager? He could make an announcement and see if there’s a doctor in the store?’

  ‘God, no,’ said the man fervently. ‘It’s just a touch of flu. It’ll pass in a minute.’

  The woman looked highly doubtful and glanced around to see if his water had arrived. But there was no one to be seen except the shoppers, bustling and jostling against each other like koi carp at feeding time.

  ‘Here,’ the woman said, diving beneath the counter and producing her own handbag. ‘Have this, I haven’t opened it yet’. She pulled a small bottle of water from the depths of her bag and passed it across the counter.

  ‘Thank you,’ muttered the man weakly. It was a struggle to break the seal with one hand still occupied supporting his weight, but eventually the flimsy plastic tag snapped free, sending the bottle top flying through the air. He never did drink from it, though, because as he shakily lifted the bottle to his lips, a heavy crushing pain suddenly constricted his chest. It felt like a solid steel belt was being cinched tighter and tighter around him. Grey spots danced before his eyes and his hand simply released the bottle, splashing a small torrent down onto the jewellery display. The man hit the floor at just about the same time as the small plastic container.

  Ally

  They say the sense of smell is the most evocative of all the senses for conjuring up emotions and memories. I think I agree with that. Because for me the smell of chicken nuggets will forever be intrinsically bound up with bad news. Actually, perhaps I should clarify that, not chicken nuggets, but burnt chicken nuggets. They were under the grill, one side golden brown, the other side almost there when the knock came at my door. For a second I thought he had forgotten his keys, but then I remembered him separating them from the fob that held the car keys that morning.

  I could see two silhouetted shadows beyond the frosted glass of the front door. I glanced around for my purse. It was a little early in the evening for carol singers, and the shapes standing on my doorstep were quite tall, but these days when they were out of school uniform most teenagers looked like adults. They weren’t teenagers, and they weren’t carol singers either. But they were in uniform. As soon as I opened the door they both reached up and took off their hats, in perfect unison, as though they had practised it like synchronised swimmers in the police academy. Why do they do that, some abstract part of my mind wondered, even while I could feel one hand rising to my throat, as though preparing to stifle a cry. My other hand was already gripping the door jamb for support.

  ‘Mrs Taylor?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Mrs Alexandra Taylor?’ And why did they do that? Why two questions instead of one? Why waste time when it was obvious I was the person they’d come calling for, by the blood that was rapidly draining from my face.

  ‘What’s wrong? Is it Joe? Has something happened?’ What a stupid question; of course something had happened. It was there in their eyes, in the hats tucked neatly beneath their arms, in the pause they took before answering.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s been an accident,’ the taller and slightly older officer began. I looked at the second man standing beside him, as though he might have different news, but he was just looking uncomfortable and decidedly nervous. I could tell this was the first time that he’d done this.

  ‘But I have the car,’ I said stupidly, because that was always my fear when the roads were icy.

  ‘Not a car accident,’ the policeman said gently, as though the bad news might somehow have diminished my mental capacity. Actually, it probably had. ‘May we come in?’ I wanted to say no, because I didn’t want any of this to be real. I wanted to shut the door – slam it even – in their young sympathetic faces and tell them they had the wrong house, the wrong woman, the wrong man.

  I staggered back into the hallway and they followed me, one of them reaching out to grasp my elbow to steady me.

  ‘Joe. What’s happened to him? What sort of an accident? Is he . . .’

  ‘Your husband is alive. He’s been taken to St Elizabeth’s hospital. Our latest information is that his condition is listed as critical; and he’s still unconscious.’

  The smell of burning breadcrumbs filtered from the kitchen into the hall, permeating the almost incomprehensible words.

  ‘The paramedics successfully resuscitated him at the scene, but obviously we’re unclear at this time how long he wasn’t breathing.’

  Joe, not breathing? This had to be some sort of horrible mistake. Joe did good breathing. A little noisy at night sometimes, but I kind of liked that. He was an excellent breather.

  ‘I don’t understand. What’s happened to my husband?’ I cried, gripping the officer’s blue-jacketed arms as though I wanted to shake the answer out of him.

  ‘I’m sorry, we should have explained. I am afraid technically he drowned, Mrs Taylor,’ was the totally inconceivable reply.

  Somewhere, far in the distance, the kitchen smoke alarm began to peal.

  Charlotte

  ‘Raging Poppy or Scarlet Harlot?’ asked the manicurist with a small grin. I studied the two bottles on the table in front of me. My hand hovered back and forth above them, before plucking up the darker red shade. ‘I think a trip to the Big Apple deserves a bold colour like this one,’ I decided, handing it over.

  ‘You’re sooo lucky,’ she sighed, shaking the varnish as vigorously as any cocktail bar tender. ‘I’ll be surprised if I get anything more than a supermarket toiletry set from my boyfriend. He’d never think of surprising me with a holiday.’

  I wriggled in my seat, a little embarrassed that I had blurted out my secret to a girl I hardly knew, who I only saw on my regular visits to the salon. But I had to tell somebody; I was so excited, I just wanted to share it, and I couldn’t risk it getting back to David that I’d found the one email he had forgotten to delete confirming the itinerary for my surprise Christmas present. And it wasn’t like I was deliberately snooping or anything; I had literally stumbled across it while looking for something else. ‘I am not the kind of wife who goes rifling through her husband’s inbox. Truly, Your Honour.’ I smiled as I visualised myself held up for charges in the dock. Perhaps once . . . but that was a very long time ago; another lifeti
me, another me. A small niggling memory emerged from nowhere to pierce my bubble of good humour, dragging me back to a night not that long ago. Just a month or two back, in fact, when the sound of my husband mumbling in his sleep had woken me in the middle of the night. I stiffened involuntarily, causing the manicurist to brush bright red varnish onto the skin around my perfectly oval-shaped nail.

  ‘Sorry,’ I murmured. She looked up and managed to hide her look of irritation as she fixed the problem.

  I’d been lucky that they had been able to fit me in at such short notice, but I was a regular, so they’d juggled around some appointments for me. At least I didn’t have to worry about getting time off work. That’s the benefit of owning your own business – the boss is always very reasonable about stuff like that.

  I didn’t doubt for a minute that David had executed the planning of this holiday down to the last smallest detail. He was a master of organisation in everything he did. He had to be with his job. So there would be no missing documentation, no lapsed travel insurance, no out-of-date passports. But he was still a typical man, who simply wouldn’t get the necessity of a mani, pedi and of course a good Brazilian before any self-respecting woman could go away on holiday.

  Not that I intended to let him know I’d found out about our post-Christmas trip to New York. He would be crushed if I ruined the surprise, especially as he’d obviously gone to a lot of effort to give me this perfect present. I wasn’t going to do anything to spoil the moment for him. Which meant I had spent quite a bit of time in front of the bathroom mirror over the last few days, practising my totally surprised and delighted face, until I was sure I could convey exactly the right blend of astonishment and excitement.