by Carol Mason
I finally sit up and look at him. ‘Wrong with me?’
‘What gives you the right to talk about me like that, about our marriage, on a public forum?’
I’ve never really heard Joe raise his voice, except when he’s lost it occasionally with one of his business partners.
‘Would you rather I’d told friends? People who – like me – thought I was marrying someone very different to the person I clearly did marry? People you’d have to look in the eye at some point?’
‘I thought I was your friend,’ he says.
The comment sits there. I suddenly fill with regret.
‘We could have talked,’ he says, more levelly.
‘I tried talking.’
‘You could have tried harder. You should have tried harder. And kept it . . . in-house.’
I attempt to take a breath, and then I say, ‘And what trying have you ever done in this marriage, Joe? Because for all your fancy words about how you were going to do better, not a single thing has changed.’
He glares at me. He doesn’t correct me. Because he knows he can’t.
THIRTY-FIVE
Joe works late for the next few nights. I have a long chat with Sophie on the phone and tell her the gist of what happened. The kids arrive at the weekend. I set it up so that Joe takes Toby out to the lido and I can speak to Grace alone. She stands there staring at her feet while I tell her I’m sorry, that I needed to vent, needed an outlet. At the time I was writing it, I felt I meant it, but the reality is, it was just my anger. I tell her that just like the time before when I offended her, I hope we can put this past us.
She continues to stare at her feet, a faint bloom of pink across her nose. Then she says an overly chirpy, ‘Okay!’ and flits off to her room – looking a bit like someone just told her she won the lottery, rather than reminded her of something she’d rather forget.
On Sunday, reverting back to old practices, I meet Sophie and Charlie for a pub lunch. Despite my intention to insist we don’t talk about it, it’s almost all we talk about.
‘It could have been worse.’ Charlie takes a sip of his pint and sets it on the table.
I frown. ‘How?’
He shakes his head. ‘I don’t know. That’s the part I’m trying to think about . . . The one thing in life you can always rely on is that whatever shit happens to you, it truly could have always been worse.’
Sophie’s face turns serious. ‘I feel really bad for you. You seem really low, Lauren. I don’t think I’ve seen you like this before. Do you think you and Joe are going to be okay?’
I want to say, Yes, of course. That despite everything that’s happened, underneath all this, I do still love him even though he’s not perfect, and that’s all that truly matters. Instead I say, ‘I don’t know. I’m not sure how much more of this I can take.’
‘Look . . .’ Charlie stares me bluntly in the eyes. ‘I know you’re furious with Joe and everything, but come on . . . you went online and you maligned his little fuckers. Okay, that’s not entirely unforgivable, but he’s hardly going to give you a medal and send you to a spa for a week!’ He shakes his head in despair. ‘Just give him some time. He’ll come around. People always do.’ Then he adds, ‘Or they don’t. And they end up splitting up. But even if that happens, then you can be guaranteed there will be some other path in store for you. That’s another one of life’s truisms. As one door closes, another always opens.’
‘Wait,’ I say, something about his earlier comment troubling me. ‘I never said I maligned any little fuckers.’ All I told Sophie was I said a few things about Joe and Meredith that they hadn’t liked and Grace found the link.
He rolls his eyes. ‘Duh!’
He seems to be waiting for some sort of penny to drop.
When it doesn’t, he says, ‘If Manifesto Meredith can go online and set up a fake account, we can’t have her outdo us.’
I swallow a big chunk of lamb without chewing. ‘What?’ I glance from Charlie to Sophie, who blushes and lowers her gaze.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, after a hollow silence. There’s an instant where she looks like she might actually cry. ‘It wasn’t my idea.’
‘Oh, my God.’ The realisation fully lands on me.
‘We just wanted to have a clear picture, if we were going to be helpful,’ he says. ‘You can’t really tell us half the story.’
My mouth drops open, the words slow to line up. I cannot believe what I’m understanding. ‘Don’t you have enough to do to just focus on your own shit?’ I glare at Sophie, making sure to include her too. ‘Why is my life so enthralling to you and so ripe for ridicule? What’s wrong with you two?’
I’m dying to tell him what I know about him, to burst his pathetic little bubble. But I can’t bring myself to.
‘You two deserve each other,’ I say instead. I dig in my bag, find a wad of fivers and throw them on the table.
‘Lauren?’ Sophie calls after me as I stride across the room.
But I don’t look back.
As I am walking to the Tube, at a brisk pace, desperate to put some distance between me and what just happened, my phone pings. I think it might be Sophie texting, but then I see the name.
Hello Lauren,
Been a while since we wrote. Just thought I’d check in and see how you are.
Mel! I had virtually forgotten about her. I latch on like a lifeline, start dictating a reply as I walk. Mel! Your timing could not be better! Been a very bizarre time lately! We never did have that coffee! I am off at three tomorrow, how about then?
Oddly – and sadly – I feel closer to a stranger than I do to one of my best friends. It seems surreal. I try to push that very upsetting thought out of my mind.
She texts back. Sorry to hear things are rough. I can’t make tomorrow. My dad is having chemo and I need to drive him. Maybe the week after next? Generally, with teaching, I’m free weekdays after 3 p.m.
I text back that I’m sorry to hear about her father, and that I’ll be in touch the week after next.
On Monday, after school, I take Toby to the park. Before we arrive at the swings, we come across a wounded young crow on the ground near some bushes. Some other crows kick up a fuss when I try to pick up the bird and examine its drooping wing. ‘We had better leave him with his family,’ I tell Toby, doing a quick google search to see what we should do. ‘He might just be learning how to fly.’ Toby peers over my shoulder and tries to read from my phone, which I think is cute. ‘If he’s still here tomorrow we’ll consider taking him to a wildlife rescue place,’ I say after we sit for a while on the ground beside him – at Toby’s request – ‘To keep him company’.
‘But won’t he be hungry if he can’t get his food?’
‘His mummy will feed him. Crows are very clever.’ I tell him some things I’ve heard they can do. He listens, intrigued. ‘Maybe when we get home we’ll see what else we can find out about crows on the internet.’
‘Let’s go now then!’
‘You don’t want to play on the swings?’
‘No.’ He stands and waves for me to do the same. ‘I want to read about crows.’
The next day when we come back, the bird is still there. We’ve brought a box with us which Toby has lined with one of his T-shirts.
‘He recognises us!’ Toby stares at the bird with adorable tenderness. ‘Can I hold him?’
‘Remember what it said online? The parents won’t like it if we handle him too much.’
‘Why not?’ he says, looking up at me with innocent eyes.
‘Because his mother is protective. She might not know we’re trying to help him. It might upset her and she might not like us.’
‘Oh, okay,’ he says.
I manage to get the bird in the box.
‘I hope they’re not going to attack us,’ Toby says, shrinking when he hears the other birds squawking.
‘I’ll protect you!’ I say brightly.
‘You will?’
I smile down at h
im. ‘Always!’
He beams. ‘Okay then.’
The next day, Wednesday, is my thirtieth birthday. With falling out with my friends weighing heavily on my mind, and the stiffness in the air between me and Joe, I’m not exactly brimming with celebratory spirit. It’s technically my day off but I even contemplate calling in to see if there’s a shift I might be needed to cover.
I’m just lying spreadeagled on my bed when Joe texts. R U awake?
He generally tries his best not to phone in case I’m still sleeping. Just I reply.
A few moments later, my phone rings.
‘Well, good morning and happy birthday!’ His voice is very much that of the old Joe. No hint of coolness. He’s almost flirty.
I take this to mean I’m forgiven. The one thing I’d say he’s good at is not holding grudges. And it seems I’m good at it too.
‘I left you breakfast. Had to rush. Didn’t want to wake you.’
I vaguely remember the brush of his kiss goodbye.
‘Thank you,’ I tell him. ‘I haven’t emerged from under the covers yet.’
‘It’s going to be a very long day for me, and I’m afraid the reason I’m phoning now, while I’ve a minute, is it’s going to go on longer.’
‘That’s fine,’ I say, still a little too indifferent to be disappointed. ‘I’m really not all that bothered about going out. We can always do it another night.’
‘No way,’ he says, chirpily. ‘We’re absolutely still going! Reservation’s not till eight. But the problem is Meredith can’t pick up Toby from school as she had to fly up to Manchester for a court case and won’t be back until evening, and Rosamie is with her sick daughter again . . .’ He sighs. ‘I was wondering if you could pick him up and take him to ours for a bit. Grace will come back too; maybe you can order a pizza for them? Then I’ll drop them off before we go out.’
‘Of course,’ I tell him, wondering why Grace wouldn’t just want to go straight home. ‘I can easily make some pasta or something for dinner.’
‘That’s fantastic!’ He sounds happy. Then he says he’s got to dash.
When I go into the kitchen, I find a plate with a triangle of frittata on it. Beside it is a half-bottle of champagne, some orange juice and a bouquet of gardenias, my favourite flowers. He has left a card, and inside it has written, I love you. Always. Look forward to celebrating with you tonight.
‘How is Russell?’ Toby’s first words when he sees me at the school gate.
We googled crow names and this was the best we could come up with.
‘Let’s go home and we can phone the wildlife rescue centre. See how he is!’
‘Okay!’ he says, and his little hand slides into mine.
We arrive at the crossing. Our car is about half a block down and on the other side of the street. ‘What do we do when we want to cross the road, Toby?’ I hang on to him extra tightly.
‘I don’t know, Lauren. What do we do?’ Then he quickly adds, ‘We look both ways and we listen for cars and if we can’t see any cars we cross!’
‘Exactly!’
We can’t see any cars so we cross.
‘Arrive alive!’ we say, once our feet land on the other side.
Grace is sitting on the sofa when we come in. Toby darts to the cupboard to bring out his Lego.
‘Happy birthday,’ she says, rather flatly. Other than FaceTiming with my parents and calls from a few friends – Sophie and Charlie’s being conspicuously absent – I’d almost forgotten it’s my birthday.
I tell her thanks. ‘How was school?’
She shrugs. ‘Was okay.’
‘Toby,’ I say. ‘Let’s make our phone call!’ I briefly tell Grace about the bird. She listens, doesn’t say much, then flits off to her room.
I phone the wildlife centre while Toby stands there with expectant eyes. ‘Sorry, buddy,’ I tell him. ‘We’ll have to call back tomorrow. Doctor has to do his rounds!’
Toby looks glum for a second, then goes back to playing with his Lego.
I go over to the kitchen to have a look in the fridge for a snack to give him before dinner.
Grace emerges a moment or two later. ‘For you.’ She places an envelope in front of me on the breakfast bar with a flourish. ‘I didn’t really have time to do the gift thing. I stink at buying presents for other people.’
I stare at the neat cursive writing of my name. ‘Well . . . thanks!’ I pick it up and tear into it. ‘That was thoughtful of you.’
It’s a simple message. Chunky black type on a white background:
AND SHE GAVE NO FUCKS.
NOT A SINGLE ONE.
AND SHE LIVED HAPPILY EVER AFTER.
THE END.
Inside she has written Happy Birthday from Grace.
‘That’s . . . Erm . . .’ I meet two eyes that are monitoring me closely. ‘Extremely poetic. I like it. Very much.’
She beams. And then we chuckle.
‘I’ve got an idea,’ I tell her. ‘How about if we have a small glass of champagne? Your dad got me a bottle. It seems like the right time of day to crack into it.’
She gives me her What? Are you serious? face. Then she says, ‘Oh . . . Well . . . Okay.’
‘Where is Dad taking you anyway?’ she asks when I pull out the flutes, pop the cork and pass her half a glass. ‘You’re supposed to go somewhere posh for your thirtieth, aren’t you?’
‘We’re going for a steak. That new place in Shoreditch. The meat-lover’s paradise.’
‘Gross!’ She wrinkles her nose. ‘What’s he buying you?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t need a gift.’
She gives me a wide-eyed, disbelieving look. So I add, ‘But if I get one, I won’t exactly make him take it back.’
She beams again.
Before I put the pan on, I tell her I’m going to pop into my room to figure out what I’m going to wear.
‘Can I come too?’
‘Of course,’ I say, thrilled with this transformation.
Toby is talking to his imaginary friends while he builds his Lego. Grace and I take our drinks into my room where she throws herself on to the bed and watches me as I make a couple of trips to and from the walk-in. Black satin cigarette pants. A little fitted bolero jacket. Two pairs of shoes that go well with the ankle-length hem of the pants – an open-toe wedge and a strappy stiletto. Ordinarily I’d opt for the wedge but I have a memory of Joe lifting my foot and kissing my ankle, then all the way up my leg, when I wore them last time, and telling me that, in case it wasn’t obvious, he really liked high heels.
‘I love the trousers but I don’t love the jacket,’ Grace says, after she’s had me model everything for her. ‘It’s very dated. Like it belongs in the ’80s. A bit square-shouldered.’
I study myself in the mirror. ‘Damn. You’re right!’
She jumps off the bed. ‘Let me see what else you’ve got.’ She disappears into the walk-in, humming a tune, and I hear her ripping through the rack.
‘I love this.’ She emerges with a silk, long-sleeved pewter grey blouse I’d almost forgotten I own.
‘Really?’
‘Put it on.’
I dutifully whip my T-shirt off and slip into the blouse, leaving the bow hanging long and loose. ‘Nah!’ she frowns, then ties it in a classic knot. ‘Much better! It would look great with those jeans you had on.’
‘Seriously?’ I put them back on. She tells me to tuck the shirt in tight.
‘Voila!’ She grips my shoulders and turns me to face the mirror. ‘It rocks.’ She dusts her hands off – task accomplished. ‘Now for the shoes.’
Back in the kitchen, once my outfit has been sorted, I take the pesto I made a couple of days ago from the fridge, add a little more olive oil to slacken it up and give it a brisk stir until it returns to its proper healthy green colour. Then I grate some fresh parmesan, pinching a few shavings and popping them into my mouth as I put a pan of water on to boil, placing it safely on the back burner out of instinct.
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From across the room I can hear Toby doing his ventriloquist act with Godfrey the Giraffe for his sister. ‘Wewo Gwace!’
Grace chuckles. ‘You’re insane!’
‘Ow wis whe weather?’
‘Ha ha! Stop it!’
I smile, slice a French stick into rounds and butter them.
Joe texts. All good? Kids home?
All fine. And me too! I snap a close-up of the champagne flute.
Perfect! Enjoy!
I send him a thumbs-up.
He sends a red heart.
I reach into the cupboard for pasta bowls, set them on the table with the cutlery.
‘Small portion for me,’ Grace shouts over. ‘I’m not that hungry.’
I dig in the cupboard to find the strainer. ‘Okay!’
‘Can we phone and find out how Russell is?’ Toby is now standing by the breakfast bar, trying to perch Godfrey on the end of it.
‘We just did! They won’t have any more news yet. We’ll have to leave it until tomorrow.’
‘Will Russell come home with us while he gets better?’
‘Maybe.’ I smile. ‘We’ll have to wait until they tell us what to do.’
I’m just lifting the pan from the gas with the oven glove and switching the knob to OFF when I hear him say, with great excitement, ‘I really want Russell to come and stay with us! Can we, please?’ And then without even a hint of a warning, he runs up behind me and throws his arms around my legs, right as I’m turning.
There’s a horrific moment, immediately before it happens, where I see it coming.
My hand wobbles.
The pan slips.
Toby screams.
THIRTY-SIX
‘Oh my God!’ I hear Grace saying. ‘Oh my God!’
Toby’s scream – more chilling than anything I’ve ever heard before – hits me like a gut punch.
Somehow my brain kicks into gear and I quickly scoop him up. He is saturated from his shoulders to his little bare feet and stiff as a board. A bubble of saliva gurgles from the corner of his mouth.