by Lucy Dawson
Until Kirsty intercepts me coming out of the downstairs loo, once we’ve washed up.
Mum is putting plates away, Dad is making a selection of decaf and caf tea and coffee for everyone and Bill seems to have sloped off with the papers having let the boys disappear upstairs again.
‘So – this book of yours then?’ Kirsty smiles as I emerge. ‘I have a couple of questions.’
‘Do you think they’re OK up there?’ I try to distract my sister, nodding up towards the bedroom. ‘They’ve gone very quiet. Don’t you always say that’s when you really have to worry?’
‘They’re fine.’ She doesn’t take her eyes from me. ‘What’s it really about then?’
‘Um.’ I look away. ‘I don’t really want to say at this precise moment, if that’s OK?’
She continues to stare at me. ‘I thought as much. You’ve based it on Hugo leaving you for Ava, haven’t you? That’s why you were reading that other book about an affair, to see how other authors have done it, and if it’s too similar to yours?’
It’s both very plausible and yet also such complete bollocks, I genuinely don’t know what to say.
She leaps on my silence, instantly.
‘Oh Amy, please don’t do this,’ she begs.
‘Mia!’ I correct her sharply. ‘I’m not Amy anymore. I’m never going to be that pushover girl again. You know it’s important to me. Please try and get it right. Sometimes it actually feels like you do it on purpose.’
‘Sorry – Mia. I meant Mia. It’s just when I get stressed I forget and…’ She exhales heavily. ‘Sweetheart, I don’t know who encouraged you to start this book – if it was one of your counsellors’ ideas to get it all out of your system in some sort of cathartic way – but don’t put your own thinly veiled story out there, please. People are so vicious – they’ll tear you apart and I’m worried you’re not strong enough to take that.’ She puts an earnest hand on my arm and I can see genuine fear in her eyes. ‘It’s different being a character in a play or on TV, you can hide away behind them. But putting yourself and your own experiences up for grabs – that’s something else completely. I know you’re going to tell me you’ve not based it on what happened, but you were obsessed by them being together at the time when you must have started writing this book. They were all you could think about when you were… ill and at The Pines.’ Her eyes fill with tears and she looks crossly up at the ceiling. ‘Shit! Sorry,’ she whispers and wipes them away angrily with the sleeve of her jumper. ‘I’m sorry. What I mean is, I don’t want you to have to think about this anymore. You’ve moved on. You’re doing so well.’
I reach out with my other hand and take hers, firmly, in mine.
‘I had a breakdown for lots of reasons that weren’t just about Hugo and Ava, although yes, they kicked it all off and were definitely my focus for quite an unhealthy length of time. I know that when I was really bad – that bit when I was in The Pines in particular – you were terrified I was going to hurt myself and we both know I came very close.’ I don’t hide from this fact. It’s too important. To pretend it wasn’t that big a deal after the event isn’t fair to her or me. It invalidates the support she gave me and how hard I worked too. ‘I’m so sorry you went through that. Kirsty, look at me.’ I wait until she does as I ask. ‘I promise you, I will never publish a book based on my actual life. It’s not about Hugo and Ava – I swear. I wouldn’t give the egotistical bastards the satisfaction, for one thing.’
She shakily half-laughs. ‘Promise?’
‘I promise.’
‘OK.’ She swallows. ‘Then I sincerely hope it gets picked up by someone, they pay you a truck load of money for it and you wipe the floor with Hugo. I hope it’s everywhere and your success sticks in his throat every day he sees it.’
‘I’m not sure that’s a healthy motivation. Have you considered therapy?’ I deadpan and she shoots me a look.
‘Hey, listen,’ she squeezes my hand back and then lets me go, ‘I hate my husband’s lack of tact, but… how is your love life and when are we going to get to meet this new bloke?’
I shrug. ‘I’m not deliberately hiding Seth away, it’s just hard because I’ve been working, he’s working when I’m off… and at least every other weekend, like this one, he has his kids.’
Kirsty doesn’t say anything, just looks at the floor.
‘Now what?’ I say lightly. ‘Go on, spit it out.’
‘Nothing, it’s nothing,’ she replies quickly. ‘I just wish he didn’t already have kids and baggage, that’s all. I don’t want that for you. I want something easy, fun. Not an ex-wife – no matter how nice she may or may not turn out to be – and all the shit that goes with that. And if you hadn’t gone for an older man, again,’ she continues, as I start to protest, ‘you wouldn’t have to be sharing him at weekends. It’s going to be like this, always. Disruption, fitting around someone else’s demands and requests – and it doesn’t have to be this way. You’re too little to have to deal with all of this shit.’
‘I’m twenty-five, he’s only forty-one, he’s also not HugeEgo,’ I try to lighten the tone by using the nickname she herself coined for Hugo, ‘and it is what it is.’ I gesture helplessly. ‘You can’t help who you fall in love with.’ The words are out there before I can stop them.
‘Love?’ Kirsty looks shocked.
I nod, almost guiltily.
‘Wow. OK. Well – we better meet him soon then, hadn’t we?’
‘You’ll be nice to him, if I bring him here?’
‘Of course I will,’ she replies irritably. ‘Probably. But what about if you want kids of your own with him at some point? Have you even thought about that? I know you’ve been seeing this guy for all of three minutes and while I know that won’t seem imp—’
‘Kirsty. Stop. Please.’ I hold up my hands. ‘You’re right. A couple of months is still very early days. I’m being cautious. But I don’t think I need to worry and neither do you. You’ll like him. He’s funny – and kind.’ I reach in my pocket and pull out my phone, finding a picture of the two of us. Seth is holding the camera above us and grinning, as I smile, my arms around his neck. ‘See? Look at that lovely face!’
‘Hmmm.’ Kirsty studies him. ‘He’s very good-looking, yes.’ She looks away and instead reaches out, smoothing my hair. ‘You are tired, aren’t you? Mum’s right, it’ll do you good to have a bit of a break after this run.’ She hesitates. ‘Listen, when I was putting the book back in your bag before lunch, I noticed a load of mints. I wasn’t snooping, I just saw them.’
‘I’m not smoking again,’ I say honestly, picturing myself knocking back the drinks on Friday night and hoping she can’t actually read my mind.
‘Just, be sensible, please. That’s all I’m saying.’
Mum appears in the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘Everything all right?’
Neither of us reply and she reaches into her pocket for her mobile. ‘I want a picture of my girls. Come on – arms round each other. That’s it – Lovely!’ She beams, inspecting it and then turns the screen round for us to see.
‘Ah – sisters,’ I say, looking at the picture.
‘It’s a beautiful one. Thank you, both.’ Mum slips the mobile back in her pocket and starts off upstairs. ‘I’m going to see what those boys are up to.’
I turn back to Kirsty who is still studying me.
‘I’m OK, I promise.’ I lean out and flick her right on the funny bone, like I used to when I was little and wanted my big sister to play with me instead of being sat at the table doing her homework.
I mean it as a joke and grin expectantly, but she just sighs, reaches out and pulls me into a long, tight hug, kissing my forehead furiously before spinning on the spot and marching off into the sitting room without another word.
I arrive home to a cold, unwelcoming flat. I forgot to turn the heating on when I got up this morning and the temperature has fallen away. I shiver as I make myself a hot chocolate and take it through to
the bedroom, flicking on the TV and climbing under my bedcovers to watch Graham Norton on catch-up. There are fireworks banging and whizzing outside, but I can’t be bothered to get up and look at the sparkles.
I love Claire Foy. I want her career and her Crown. I want to be sat on that red sofa being amusing about my forthcoming Hollywood movie, not under this duvet – and all that separates us, really, is opportunity. Exposure. And look at David Walliams there, next to her and Kurt Russell! A one-time comedy show and this year his children’s books are everywhere. They’re all my nephews read. I sigh and feel miserable as I remember the proud look on my Dad’s face earlier when I made my ‘announcement’. What was I thinking? I’ll just have to tell them it got rejected or something, which will make them feel even worse for me, or that I changed my mind about doing it. Except why I’d do that having supposedly written the whole thing I don’t know. Especially as my phone isn’t exactly ringing off the hook with other opportunities.
Unless… I swear under my breath and snatch my mobile up. I google Charlotte Graves, writer, and her website comes up straight away. Would it hurt to meet her again, just to see what she has to say in more detail about this master plan of hers? I find the ‘contact me’ page and stare at the blank form for a moment, remembering her instructions that she would get back in touch with me. But that was on Thursday. It’s now Sunday. There’s no point in her treating me mean to keep me keen – I’m as keen as I’m ever going to get. We might as well just do this… my fingers start to type… I enter my name, email address and under ‘your message’ I put:
Hello! I hope you don’t mind me contacting you. I read one of your books over the weekend and really enjoyed it. I’m just starting out in my writing career and don’t know any authors. Would I be able to talk to you for a bit of advice? What pitfalls to avoid etc? Perhaps I could take you to coffee if you’re ever in London?
I sit back, pretty pleased with that. She can’t object to anything I’ve put there, but she’ll also get exactly what I mean. I’m clearly saying yes, let’s go for it.
I chew my lip, looking at the words, suddenly unsure, but again – as if they are under the control of some part of my subconscious so deeply powerful I’m almost a spectator to the decision I’m making – my fingers click send…
A frisson of excitement whispers through my body. It’s gone. My new-new counsellor asked me only last week, what is it about impulsive actions that I find so addictive?
It’s not complicated. They make me feel good.
‘But only in the moment,’ she’d argued, ‘what about the long-term ramifications?’
Whatever. I’m going to ‘write’ a book. I’m going to sell it for a lot of money. I have a feeling in my bones that, pretty soon, I’m going to be looking back on meeting Charlotte Graves for the first time and genuinely will pinpoint it as the moment my life changed forever.
SEVEN
CHARLOTTE
Clara, in particular, is enchanted by the fireworks, jumping up and down in delight as they explode above her head; golden reflections catching in the river and her eyes, while turning her perfect skin pink, green, red… She claps her gloved hands and gasps: ‘Look Mummy! They are so beautiful!’
I pretend to watch, and make all of the right noises, but really I’m sneaking glances at her instead. She is so beautiful. It makes my heart hurt. I look at Teddy too – stumpy in his thick coat and wellingtons, his mittened hand reaching up to mine.
‘Mummy, I need a tissue.’
I dutifully reach into the pocket of my coat and find one, wiping his nose. He holds his arms up.
‘Hug!’
He’s too heavy for me to comfortably lift up anymore, but as long as I can do it at all – I’ll take every opportunity I’ve got. I haul him onto my hip, and he tightly wraps his arms round my neck, trapping my hair and getting a bit of snot I missed on my cheek, as he plants kiss after kiss, but I’ve already closed my eyes to try and lock this memory away where nothing will be able to hurt it. Even when he’s finished, still not wanting it to be over, I greedily snuffle his neck, breathing in the biscuity-warmth of him. I love him so much. He’s had enough though, and wriggles to get down again, before starting to jump up and down alongside Clara, not because he’s that excited about the fireworks, simply because he wants to copy his beloved big sister. She looks down at him, laughs and mimics him in return.
Moving to stand slightly behind them, hands buried in my pockets, I watch them both dancing about under the dark sky and blink back tears. They are such amazing children – a proper team. I’m so glad they will always have each other, even when they no longer want to dance like this. I would be lost without Flo. Clara turns to check I haven’t gone back inside and smiles excitedly at me. I don’t want her to have to grow up.
Tris comes running out of the gloom across my parents’ lawn. ‘Stand back!’ he instructs, and I see the red glow of my father’s taper bobbing hurriedly across the garden; the men moving away as the firework bursts into life, showering warning sparks, about to explode into action.
My husband slips an arm round my shoulder and pulls the children back towards us with the other hand. ‘Huddle up!’
‘I still think we should be watching from inside.’ I repeat my earlier concerns, and Tris rolls his eyes.
‘We’re fine, fun police. Right, this should be a biggun! Keep watching, kids!’
‘Wow!’ They both exclaim as a first, then a second almighty boom sends fountains of sparkles cascading through the air, burning brightly, flickering and finally dying away into silence and smoke. It’s very pretty, but not quite a showstopper. We wait, uncertain in case there are any more, but…
‘That’s it!’ Dad calls from somewhere behind the rhododendrons. ‘All done.’
‘Oh!’ Tris sounds a little surprised. ‘I thought it might be a little more impressive than that; it looked amazing behind the glass in the shop. Never mind. Thanks, Grandpa!’ he calls out, clapping his hands and nodding pointedly at the kids.
‘Thank you, Grandpa,’ they chorus dutifully as Dad appears, coughing slightly.
‘Time everyone went back inside, I think.’ I frown at Dad, worriedly. ‘It’s very chilly and very damp out here tonight. It’s got so much colder over the last couple of days. In we go.’ I begin to herd the children towards the house. ‘Now – five minutes of watching CBeebies and then it’s going to be sausages in buns time. After that, it’s straight in the car. We’ve got a long drive and you’ve both got school in the morning.’
‘Thank the Lord we did baths and hairwashes this morning,’ Tris says cheerfully, as we all kick off our boots in the hall and unzip coats. ‘Good call, Mummy!’
I don’t reply, but he doesn’t really notice – too busy helping Teddy put his socks back on that came off with his wellies. ‘Come on, you two – I’ll sort the TV out.’ He follows the children into the sitting room, and I turn left into the kitchen, to find my mum and sister.
Flo and her new boyfriend, Harry, are buttering hot dog buns, while Mum messes around on her phone, supposedly keeping an eye on the sausages in the oven. I’m not sure what to make of Harry yet. He’s good-looking but in a boyish way: dark eyes, pale skin, floppy hair. I wouldn’t be surprised if she said he was an academic of some kind. Not Flo’s usual six-footer, reeking of testosterone, that’s for sure. I glance at him again… vulnerable. That’s the word. He looks vulnerable.
‘Mum!’ Flo says sharply. ‘They smell like they’re burning.’
Mum jumps, puts her phone down and yanks the tray out. ‘No! All fine!’ she says in a sing-song voice.
‘I’ll get some plates,’ I offer, crossing the room to the tissue box on the side and blowing my nose first.
‘You OK?’
I look up to see Flo looking at me intently. I nod. ‘Just coming into the warm from outside.’ I clear my throat and look away.
‘Oooh!’ Mum tries to unstick a sausage from the foil, only to accidentally flip it on the floor. ‘Thes
e wretched, skinny little chipolatas.’ She bends, picks it up, inspects it quickly, shrugs and moves towards the big plate I’ve just got out.
‘No!’ Flo and I chorus simultaneously.
‘There’s cat hair and God knows what else down there, Mum.’ Flo wrinkles her nose.
‘No, there most certainly is not!’ Mum responds indignantly. ‘How rude!’ She waves it around and dusts it off. ‘There’s nothing wrong with it.’
Tris comes into the room and Mum holds it out to him, smiling sweetly. ‘Sausage going begging if you want it?’
Before we can say anything, Tris reaches out, eats it whole and starts to chew before stepping across the room to grab a tea towel. He holds it aloft. ‘Teddy’s just spilt his drink, but it’s only water. Thanks for the snag. Very nice.’ He disappears back out again.
‘See?’ Mum says. ‘What the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve after.’
Flo glances quickly again at me. Our eyes meet, and she looks away silently.
‘Can I just say, for future reference, I don’t ever want to be offered a cat hair sausage?’ Harry puts his hand up. ‘If that’s OK… I’m more of a dog person.’
I half-smile.
‘Honestly,’ Mum scoffs. ‘You’re all snowflakes.’