Falling Off Air by Catherine Sampson Page A

pale and clean of makeup. I waved at her, and she spotted me in the mirror and turned to mouth “Monday” at me, and
     I gave her a thumbs-up. Perhaps Suzette was the way out. A partnership in Paradigm productions would give me the creative
     freedom I craved, and I liked her; she was bright and serious and very thorough. She had a great visual sense and huge reserves
     of enthusiasm. We had worked together a couple of years ago on a series about schools, and we'd got on just fine. We could
     do it again.
    I saw Jane, then, on the arm of the Corporation's political editor Quentin Browne and caught her eye. She was a picture of
     Chinese chic, wearing a tailored red cheongsam split to the thigh. Jane is tall and not at all willowy, so it was not what
     you would call a subtle outfit, especially when almost everyone else was in shades of black. She winked at me and wiggled
     her substantial hips against Quentin, who turned to her and kissed her full on the lips. I must have looked astounded, because
     when she emerged from his embrace and saw my face, she laughed out loud. I could hear her raucous bellow from where I stood,
     and her date put his hands over his ears and said something to her which made her laugh more. It appeared there were many
     things I'd missed in my seclusion.
    Jane was working her way through the crush toward me when there was a tap on my shoulder. I turned, expecting Maeve again,
     my heart sinking. Then I stood stock still while my heart did something else entirely, and my jaw dropped.
    It was Adam. Why hadn't I anticipated exactly this? I cannot say. Except, perhaps, that I had erected such substantial barriers
     in my head against him that I had assumed they had actual physical existence. Somewhere deep in my psyche I must have thought
     he could not actually get close to me, not to my head, not to my body.
    “Hi,” he said. “Are you talking to me?”
    He smiled and it was a smile from the bedroom and the breakfast table. My heart twisted. That smile would warm my lonely hours.
     The kids would love that smile. He would seduce me. All over again. He would let me down. All over again. This time he would
     let us all down.
    “In principle,” I said slowly, “but actually I have nothing to say to you.”
    For an instant his smile faded, and I could see that behind it he was nervous. That was fine by me. Let him surfer. He cleared
     his throat.
    “How are Hannah and William?”
    I raised my eyebrows in mock surprise.
    “You know their names.”
    He had the grace to look sheepish.
    “Suzette told me.”
    I nodded. I couldn't help noticing that heads were turning, that people were watching. Too many people knew our history for
     this to be between the two of us. Suddenly I needed it to end. I turned to walk away, but he grabbed my arm and didn't let
     go. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Jane step toward us, but I shook my head.
    “I've been thinking,” he said, moving closer, lowering his voice. “I was a jerk …”
    He still had my arm, and he held up his other hand to fend off my interruption. I could smell his soap. I could smell booze
     too, and guessed he'd been drinking for a couple of hours already. He looked thicker around his chin, almost jowly, and right
     at that moment he was displaying none of his old devil-may-care charm.
    “I'm not saying we can go back,” he hurried on. “I'm just saying could I see them sometime, could I help out, maybe financially?
     I feel bad …”
    “Too late,” I hissed back at him, my face burning. I twisted my arm out of his grip.
    “Oh for God's sake, Robin, they're my children as much as yours.” He was getting angry now, moving his weight from foot to
     foot, his face too near to mine, and with a broadcaster's voice any whisper is a stage whisper. Everyone was getting this
     loud and clear. “You can't keep them all to yourself forever. I just didn't want the whole domestic deal.”
    I wanted to hit him then, or shout at him—something