away. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’ve come to see you,’ I said, pointing out the obvious.
He looked confused. ‘Is it one of the children? Is something wrong?’
‘No, no they’re fine.’ I laughed a bright quick laugh, more for the benefit of the receptionist than him; she was watching us, clearly entertained. ‘I was in London for
the day and I thought I’d surprise you.’
‘Oh,’ he said. Just that.
‘I met my mother,’ I said. And I lied, ‘I thought I told you.’
‘No,’ he said, frowning. ‘No, you didn’t.’
That receptionist was quite openly staring at us. I swear I heard her snigger.
‘I thought you might show me your office,’ I said coyly, tilting my head slightly to one side, much the way that I used to do.
But he said, ‘There’s a meeting going on up there at the moment. I came out when they said you were here. I thought something must have happened.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘No, no, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘If you’d let me know you were coming I’d have – I don’t know – ’ He was anxious to get back to his
meeting. He glanced at his watch, and mirroring his actions, I looked at mine. It was twenty past four.
‘Well,’ I said. ‘It was a bit spur of the moment.’
‘I’m sorry I can’t ask you up for a coffee or anything.’
‘No. Well. Never mind. I’d better get back for the children anyway.’
He smiled. ‘It was nice to see you,’ he said, so terribly polite.
‘It was nice to see you too.’
‘I don’t know how long this meeting will go on for but I’ll try and get back on the 7.20 train,’ he said, as if that was consolation, as if I thought for a moment
he’d actually make it. These meetings, they go on and on. ‘I’ll see you later,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’ll see you later.’
Back outside, I took a deep breath. I watched all those London people dashing about in their busy, London lives.
What had I hoped for? That he’d just abandon his work and whisk me off somewhere in the middle of the afternoon?
This was the real world.
I thought about David on the train home. I couldn’t think about anything else.
It was a long time since I had seen him in his work environment, and it had made me realize that I knew so little about his daily life these days, away from us. All I knew about life in that
office in London was what I remembered from when I had worked there, nearly eleven years ago. In my head, the other people who worked alongside and around David were the same old people who had
been there back then, but of course that wouldn’t be the case. Most of those people would have moved on by now, and still more would have joined and since left too, in their place. The
chances are I wouldn’t have known anyone. I never kept in touch with anyone from work after I left; I was too busy with my children. And I knew that, certainly in my department, people came
and went all the time. My memory was stuck in a time warp. The truth was I knew nothing about David’s working life. I didn’t even know the name of the colleague whose flat he sometimes
stayed at.
And yet I could have known. I really should have known. I should have asked him. But I realized then that I had stopped talking to David a long time ago.
I stared out of that train window at the monotony of houses, trees, and fields flashing by, and I was struck by a wave of remorse. And worse than that: of uncertainty.
Visiting him there at his office, it was I who was the misfit, and yet that was how I had come to view him these days at home. Inwardly, I had felt some perverse satisfaction at the sight of him
getting things wrong with the children; getting the names of their new friends muddled; not knowing that Ella had been on a school trip to Bath; that Sam had moved up a set in maths. I had come to
see it as his fault that he did not know all the little details of our daily lives – after all, he had chosen to remove himself
‘I’ve come to see you,’ I said, pointing out the obvious.
He looked confused. ‘Is it one of the children? Is something wrong?’
‘No, no they’re fine.’ I laughed a bright quick laugh, more for the benefit of the receptionist than him; she was watching us, clearly entertained. ‘I was in London for
the day and I thought I’d surprise you.’
‘Oh,’ he said. Just that.
‘I met my mother,’ I said. And I lied, ‘I thought I told you.’
‘No,’ he said, frowning. ‘No, you didn’t.’
That receptionist was quite openly staring at us. I swear I heard her snigger.
‘I thought you might show me your office,’ I said coyly, tilting my head slightly to one side, much the way that I used to do.
But he said, ‘There’s a meeting going on up there at the moment. I came out when they said you were here. I thought something must have happened.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘No, no, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘If you’d let me know you were coming I’d have – I don’t know – ’ He was anxious to get back to his
meeting. He glanced at his watch, and mirroring his actions, I looked at mine. It was twenty past four.
‘Well,’ I said. ‘It was a bit spur of the moment.’
‘I’m sorry I can’t ask you up for a coffee or anything.’
‘No. Well. Never mind. I’d better get back for the children anyway.’
He smiled. ‘It was nice to see you,’ he said, so terribly polite.
‘It was nice to see you too.’
‘I don’t know how long this meeting will go on for but I’ll try and get back on the 7.20 train,’ he said, as if that was consolation, as if I thought for a moment
he’d actually make it. These meetings, they go on and on. ‘I’ll see you later,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’ll see you later.’
Back outside, I took a deep breath. I watched all those London people dashing about in their busy, London lives.
What had I hoped for? That he’d just abandon his work and whisk me off somewhere in the middle of the afternoon?
This was the real world.
I thought about David on the train home. I couldn’t think about anything else.
It was a long time since I had seen him in his work environment, and it had made me realize that I knew so little about his daily life these days, away from us. All I knew about life in that
office in London was what I remembered from when I had worked there, nearly eleven years ago. In my head, the other people who worked alongside and around David were the same old people who had
been there back then, but of course that wouldn’t be the case. Most of those people would have moved on by now, and still more would have joined and since left too, in their place. The
chances are I wouldn’t have known anyone. I never kept in touch with anyone from work after I left; I was too busy with my children. And I knew that, certainly in my department, people came
and went all the time. My memory was stuck in a time warp. The truth was I knew nothing about David’s working life. I didn’t even know the name of the colleague whose flat he sometimes
stayed at.
And yet I could have known. I really should have known. I should have asked him. But I realized then that I had stopped talking to David a long time ago.
I stared out of that train window at the monotony of houses, trees, and fields flashing by, and I was struck by a wave of remorse. And worse than that: of uncertainty.
Visiting him there at his office, it was I who was the misfit, and yet that was how I had come to view him these days at home. Inwardly, I had felt some perverse satisfaction at the sight of him
getting things wrong with the children; getting the names of their new friends muddled; not knowing that Ella had been on a school trip to Bath; that Sam had moved up a set in maths. I had come to
see it as his fault that he did not know all the little details of our daily lives – after all, he had chosen to remove himself
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