Page 102 of Lessons in Life

‘I’m not wonderful in enclosed spaces myself,’ I said. If what she’d said about Fabian was true, I could afford to be magnanimous. She’d said Fabian loved me. Heloved me. ‘Alexandra, you need to calm down. I’m so sorry, but you need tocalm down. Or we’ll use up all the oxygen.’

That probably wasn’t the best thing to say, because she now started hyperventilating.

‘Please, Alexandra, just try taking deep breaths… right, alarm, there must be one… here it is. We’re still on the ground floor, I think. We’ve not moved since you got in the lift.’

A disembodied male voice crackled over the intercom. ‘Lift engineer. You called? What’s up?’

‘What’s up?’ For heaven’s sake. ‘We’re stuck in the lift. We’re on the ground floor and it won’t move.’

‘Ground floor? Well, that makes it a lot easier. Have you tried pressing the open-door button?’

‘Oh?Open-door button? Silly me, why didn’t I think of that?’ I gave it another couple of pushes for good measure. ‘No, no go.’

‘Hang on, we’ll be with you in five minutes.’

It was very strange standing in a tiny enclosed space with your lover’s ex-lover (make a great title for that book I always intended writing one day:My Lover’s Ex-Lover) waiting to be released. Did we conscientiously avoid looking at each other, remaining silent, or should I try striking up a conversation such as,What’s the weather been like with you up in Ilkley? Doing anything interesting this weekend?Been away yet this year?Which, seeing we were still in January, was a bit pointless. Mind you, girls like Alexandra probably went offen familleto the slopes of Gstaad or Cortina d’Ampezzo…

Alexandra had stopped crying and hyperventilating but was simply standing, stony-faced, and I truly didn’t know what to say to comfort her. What was there to say?

Voices, some banging, some laughter (this was funny?) and the next moment the lift doors were being forced apart with something metallic and three men in yellow hi-vis jackets were peering in at us.

‘You’re out now, love,’ one man was saying as another attached an ‘Out of Order’ notice to the door.

Alexandra went to exit and I laid a hand on her arm. ‘I’m sorry, Alexandra. I’mtrulysorry.’

She gave me one final look of distaste, shook her head at me before elbowing the three men out of her way and shooting up the stone steps towards her car. I waited a good five minutes, not wanting to bump into her again (as one inevitably did down every aisle in Sainsbury’s after an initial ‘hello, how are you?’ with someone you’d not seen for years and had to then pretend to be finding something incredibly interesting in ladies’ incontinence pads or the tinned pilchards in order to avoid eye contact).

I took out my phone and saw there were three messages:

Robyn what are you playing at? What the hell are you doing in Leeds? I’m here, with an open bottle of wine and two steaks that are ready to go under the grill! Love you, you know that.

Fabian xxx

And:

Oh, girls, the flight here was so exciting. I’m in a posh restaurant in Montmartre with the very lovely Kamran. I think he likes me too! See you all tomorrow. Oh, and I need to tell you something.

Mum xx

PS, Jess, can you make sure Roger has plenty of water in his bowl?

And:

Robyn, it’s me, Jo. Just been doing a lot more research on your mum’s birth mother but not getting very far really. But then, my mum’s just been round and we got talking!!!! Ring me tomorrow, would you?!!!!!

Jo xxx

Ten minutes later I was heading home. Home to Dower Cottage.

Home to Fabian.

33

On the Saturday morning, I revelled – utterly revelled – in staying in bed with Fabian. No school, no longer any huge concerns about Sorrel, no having to worry about Mum, who appeared to have had a whale of a time with Kamran Sattar the previous evening. She’d texted at two in the morning to say she was safely back at home and we could all stop worrying that Kamran’s plane had gone down in the Channel and she was now swimming with the fishes. If my mum appeared to be rubbing noses with the family who was intent on knocking down St Mede’s as well as Hudson House, then really who was I to be self-righteous? The St Mede’s plan didn’t appear to be moving forwards yet but, when it did start, I’d be there with the rest of the protesters with my ‘Hands Off St Mede’s’ banner. I wanted nothing more than to get Sorrel through her audition in London in two days’ time, put on a successful production ofGreasein eight weeks and never ever let go of Fabian Mansfield Carrington.

Ever again.

‘How could you doubt me?’ he’d asked once I’d got back to the cottage the previous evening. ‘Don’t you trust me? You still don’t get it that I want nobody but you? How do I get it into your obstinate head, Robyn?’ He’d shaken his own head in my direction, still cross and frustrated with me, but then had scooped me up in his arms, taken me upstairs, leaving me in no doubt of his love for me.

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