by Adele Parks
Could she have made a mistake? Steph clutched at burning straws. She thought back to the texts. Most of them were splattered on to her memory like a farmer brands his sheep, a red slash. There was no mistake. In one he’d said he was dying to see her, counting the seconds. In another he’d said he couldn’t get through the day without her. He’d boasted that he’d had to go into the gents and ‘sort himself out’ because he was so horny thinking about her. Whoever she was.
The texts were gross. Ugly. Nasty.
Yet passionate. Yes, Stephanie had to admit that. They were passionate. She recognised that much, understood that much.
But there was no place for passion between a man and a woman who weren’t married to one another if they were married to other people. It was wrong. It broke all the rules.
Stephanie looked at her husband. He had something green stuck between his two front teeth. She wouldn’t tell him. It seemed that there was no place for passion between a man and a woman who were married to one another.
‘I have one of my headaches coming on. I think I need an early night.’ Her voice was not much above a whisper.
‘Oh, OK.’ Finally Julian lifted his head and met his wife’s eyes as her admitting to discomfort was unusual. ‘You look terrible.’
‘Thanks. I’ll sleep in the guest room so you don’t disturb me when you come to bed.’ She couldn’t stand the idea of sleeping next to him. How had he slept next to her for all these months?
‘Yes, OK. Sounds like a plan.’
Did it? Steph didn’t think it was much of a plan. She had to come up with something more. She could hardly convince herself that serving her cruelly deceiving husband a microwave dinner was punishment enough for his infidelity.
TUESDAY
11
Pip woke up to the sound of birds chattering. They were not real ones, the sing-song came from an electronic recording on her alarm clock, but still, she embraced the illusion. She felt like a character in an animated Disney movie, one of the old ones – Cinderella or Snow White, someone like that. For a moment she relaxed and let the recorded bird chatter float around her bedroom, as she wondered exactly which character she most related to.
Cinderella, a pauper who is suddenly elevated beyond her wildest dreams? Yes, yes, possibly. By placing an order, the buyer at Selfridges had behaved as a fairy godmother with a magic wand. Or Snow White? Who was originally destined to great things, but then was cheated out of her birthright and had to endure years of suffering in the wilderness but was ultimately restored, reinstated and rewarded.
That one, Pip decided. She was Snow White.
She stretched her coltishly long limbs up and down the bed and began to hum. Sunlight slipped through the gap in the curtains and blossomed across her duvet. So, this is what being happy felt like. A song in her head, lightness in her body, all feelings of depression and oppression banished. Pip beamed and ran the words Selfridges, Robbie Donaldson, Selfridges, Robbie Donaldson through her head, pinned to the tune of ‘Some Day My Prince Will Come’. Her bedroom door creaked open and Chloe scampered in. She expertly leapt over the piles of discarded clothes, open magazines and books, belts and bangles which Pip had abandoned on the floor (creating the impression that there were a series of drunken women passed out in Pip’s bedroom) and jumped into bed in order to bestow and receive morning cuddles.
This was Pip’s favourite part of the day, the part of the day when they had ten minutes when they had to answer to nothing and no one. A time when she could convince herself that clocks had stopped, a time when homework, chores, bills, even conversations did not have to have a meaning and the only thing that mattered was whether Chloe’s feet were warm or cold against her shins and whether her daughter’s kisses fell fluidly or had to be extracted. Both females felt like fireside cats, contentedly curled in one another’s warmth.
Normally, Pip only relinquished these tender and amiable moments after she’d twice pushed the snooze button on her alarm, often Chloe grew impatient and broke free of Pip’s hot, tight embraces and scampered into the kitchen to make a start on breakfast which forced Pip to drag herself, with great reluctance, out of bed and into her dressing gown.
But today Pip was alert and playful rather than anguished or pensive.
‘Knock, knock,’ said Pip.
Chloe instantly caught on and asked, ‘Who’s there?’
‘Alfred.’
‘Alfred who?’
‘Alfred the needle if you sew.’ Pip delivered the punchline knowing that the joke was lame but would be appreciated anyway.
‘That’s terrible!’ groaned Chloe.
‘Of course! OK, OK, how about this. Knock, knock.’
‘Who’s there?’
‘Harold.’
‘Harold who?’
‘I’m thirty-eight. Harold are you?’
‘That’s quite good,’ admitted Chloe with some seriousness. ‘Have you any more?’
More. More. Pip scrabbled around her head for some more jokes. ‘Knock, knock.’
‘Who’s there?’
‘Winnie Thup.’
‘Winnie Thup who?’
‘And Tigger too!’
While Chloe was groaning and laughing, Pip threw back the duvet and announced, ‘How about I make us pancakes for breakfast?’
‘Really?’ Chloe paused, it was clear that she was wondering how to tactfully respond. After some moments, she carefully replied, ‘We could have two bowls of Crunchy Nut Cornflakes instead of one. That would be a treat.’
Pip understood her daughter’s response and felt a flush of guilt surge through her body. Chloe was enjoying her mum’s unusually buoyant mood but experience had shown her that any interaction between her mother and cooking utensils, however brief, would almost certainly bring an abrupt halt to the festive mood. It was likely, almost inevitable, that the pancakes would stick to the pan, or Pip would drop an egg on the floor, or she’d lose track of the time and they’d arrive late at the school gate. Chloe probably didn’t want to admit that she doubted her mother’s ability to make pancakes and remain cheerful as that would certainly ruin the atmosphere within an instant.
Pip felt ashamed that no doubt Chloe was thinking of all the occasions when she’d insisted on making birthday cakes but burnt them because she was tired or distracted, or maybe Chloe was thinking about the times when Pip insisted they had to go on a picnic and had dragged them both up the Surrey Downs, lugging an enormous, delicious and nutritionally balanced picnic, only still to be found lacking because she’d forgotten the rug or drinks or something else imperative. These failures would leave Pip fighting tears while her young daughter insisted that, ‘It doesn’t matter. We’re having a good time, aren’t we? Mummy isn’t a stupid, not at all.’
Yes, Pip was often guilty of trying too hard and being bitterly and obviously disappointed when her attempts at providing the perfect childhood ended in anything less than perfection. She put herself under too much pressure and Chloe, not yet nine, had already recognised as much and tried to protect her mother from her own failings. It wasn’t as it should be. Things often hadn’t been as they should be for them, thought Pip. But now they were as they should be or, at least, they might be. There was a shot, a chance, an opportunity at least and Pip wasn’t going to blow it.
‘Good plan!’ she agreed and she resisted commenting that the risk of her mucking up pouring cereal was significantly less than her mucking up preparing pancakes. If she’d done so then Chloe would have been forced into uttering reassurances.
Over the Crunchy Nut Cornflakes Pip optimistically promised that her sunny outlook was going to last for ever, and that they would always be happy.
‘Doubt it,’ commented Chloe in a matter-of-fact fashion.
‘Why do you say that?’ asked Pip aghast.
‘Well, for ever is a really, really, really long time,’ pointed out Chloe. Pip watched as the end of her daughter’s hair trailed into the bowl of cereal, Chloe followed her mother’s gaze an
d then tucked the milk-soaked strands behind her ear. ‘I sometimes promise my best friends that I’ll love them for ever and I’ve told my worst enemies that I’ll hate them for ever but I always forget and either fall out or make up before for ever has anywhere near happened.’
Pip smiled at her amazing daughter; she knew this was true. Sometimes it was the same person at the other end of Chloe’s pledge and all the promising might take place in one day but be forgotten by the time Chloe settled down to tea and CBBC. For ever was a long time. How come her eight year old was wiser than she was? wondered Pip.
‘And no one is always happy, Mummy. I don’t think that’s possible,’ added Chloe with a calm acceptance that Pip envied.
The promise of eternal happiness and optimism was just the sort of thing that Pip said, which only Pip believed, and therefore only Pip was ever disappointed when the promise proved impossible to keep.
Even so, Chloe was no doubt delighted that Pip’s relaxed and jaunty disposition lasted at least until she was dropped off at the school gate and looked set to last all day. Her upbeat mood meant that Pip made an effort not to fall into bleak self-criticism when they reached the school gate and realised that they’d forgotten Chloe’s swimming kit. Chloe looked relieved that she didn’t have to listen to her mum calling herself stupid as usual. Pip suddenly understood that no doubt it was annoying and embarrassing enough that Chloe had to regularly wear one of the costumes from the lost and found box (baggy and worn thin so that people could see the colour of her flesh on the shoulder strap, a pity when Chloe had a lovely lilac bathing costume, with a deep scoop back and a red cherry print) but the situation was clearly made worse if Chloe had to listen to her mother go on and on and on about how hopeless she was and Chloe had to say over and over and over again how it didn’t matter. Pip knew that despite Chloe’s assurances, sometimes it did matter. Today Pip was determined that she would not allow the role-reversal where her child had to prop her up.
‘I’ll have time to go home for it and then bring it back. I’ll leave the bag on your peg. We don’t even have to tell Miss Fletcher,’ she said simply.
After Pip had briskly walked to Chloe’s school for the second time that morning and had stealthily delivered the forgotten swimming kit to the correct peg, she still felt the rare but robust sense of wellbeing and satisfaction. It was a windy day and the fat, pearlescent clouds raced across the pale blue as she dashed through the busy streets; her jacket flew open and fluttered around her in an energetic way. She felt full to the brim with possibility and excitement.
The door of her flat slammed behind her and the flap on the letter box rattled noisily. Often, returning home to her flat conjured up a vague sense of dissatisfaction. Sometimes, no matter how much she tried to, it was hard to think of the tiny rooms as cosy and the fraying wallpaper as shabby chic. Sometimes, she couldn’t help but long for the space and light that were abundant at Dylan’s live/work ‘space’ (as he’d liked to call his apartment in Clerkenwell). Sometimes she did miss London. She never said as much to anyone, certainly not Steph. It would seem ungrateful; after all, Steph had been so wonderful, so resilient and so practical when she searched for a flat for Pip.
When Dylan had given her no alternative, she had only one place to go – Steph’s. Pip hated to think of that time. That bleak and desolate time of her life when her heart ached, her dreams snapped and her future vanished. Pip and Chloe stayed with Steph, Julian and the boys for a couple of months and then, when it became obvious that they would need somewhere permanent to live, it seemed logical to pick somewhere close to Steph and her family, Pip’s main support. Of course, Steph had been absolutely right, the schools were lovely around here and the cost of living so much more manageable compared to London. As Pip was without a regular income, this was an overwhelming factor. The high street was exceptionally pretty and always bustling; still, she occasionally longed for London and all its giddy promise. It made sense to move out here to Riverford. But why was it that the sensible option was always the most likely to be the dull option?
Pip’s flat was modest, two small bedrooms, a sitting room, bathroom and kitchen. Five rooms in total. Steph had fifteen rooms, if you included the downstairs loo. Sixteen if you counted the conservatory separate from the dining room. Three times as many. Was that fair? Pip often wondered but tried not to obsess whether it was or wasn’t. It was a ridiculous thing to care about. It was silly to compare; just because they’d grown up in the same area and had gone to the same school, there was no reason to expect that they’d end up living in similar sized homes. Or have similar sized families.
Or have a husband each.
Life didn’t work like that. Pip never found herself wondering how much space the Queen had at Buckingham Palace, although she must have masses, so why compare herself to Steph?
Pip was pleased that today the kitchen did not strike her as grubby and neglected, instead she saw a thriving hub of activity. The kitchen was the largest of the five rooms in Pip’s flat. It was big enough to fit a substantial dining-room table into the centre. Pip had found the dining-room table in a house clearance warehouse years ago, when she poked around such places through curiosity rather than necessity. It sat six comfortably and eight if needs be. Pip had bought the table and had it delivered to Dylan’s where she’d lovingly stripped back the varnish and then daringly stained the table a deep plum colour. She and Dylan and their friends had often sat around the table, laughing, eating, and drinking. Chloe’s highchair had been drawn up to the table and there she’d made handprint pictures, rolled pastry in a cloud of flour, modelled play dough and painstakingly started to drag a pencil across a page in order to form letters.
Pip had been relieved to find the table in the lock-up when she and Chloe were evicted from Dylan’s. Her only stipulation when she was looking for somewhere for them to live was that she could fit the table into one of the rooms. She cared about this more than she cared about whether there was a washing machine or how far she’d have to walk to the train station. Stephanie had talked to so many letting agents. She’d explained that even if the room were large enough, if it was on the fourth floor and the table couldn’t fit through a window or up the stairs, then the flat simply wasn’t suitable – no matter how reasonable the rent was. Pip thought she might have exasperated Steph on occasion during the flat hunt but if she had, Steph had never given into petty irritation and actually said so.
The table was now ensconced in the kitchen. It dominated to the point of impracticality but Pip did not care. A long time ago she’d harboured visions of her family growing up around this table, one baby popping up after another, until all the seats were occupied. She’d thought that they would eat, struggle, squabble, chatter and laugh around the table, as they played with Lego and refused their peas. Things hadn’t turned out that way, there was just Chloe and her – a little amputee family – but still, she could at least hold on to the precious memories that had already been created around it and they could make more. True, there wouldn’t be any squabbling siblings but there would still be Lego models and rejected vegetables.
Pip’s sewing machine was pushed to the far end of the much-loved table. It was near the window so that she could benefit from any natural light and almost hidden in amongst the reels of cotton and fabric offcuts that gathered on the table. Pip loved sitting down in front of her sewing machine, sewing lulled her, the way aromatherapy or certain pieces of classical music relaxed other people.
She took pleasure in selecting the most suitable colour thread, sometimes a match, sometimes a contrast. She saw nuances in scarlet, crimson, cherry and ruby, where other people might only see red. She enjoyed the preparation of carefully threading her machine, readying it for action, for creation.
She liked the checks and balances that placed her in control of her craft and she was meticulously careful in adjusting the needle position, stitch length and width before she finally held the thread with her left hand and turned the hand wheel
with her right. She loved placing her foot on the peddle and creating a whirl or hum depending on the force she exerted. The ritual always brought her joy and today it brought her a long-lacking sense of purpose too. The things she was about to create were wanted in a London store.
Pip was so engrossed in her craft that she almost failed to notice the phone ringing. She stood up, hunted around for her mobile and eventually found it between a box of tea bags and a carton of orange juice.
‘Hello, Pippa. It’s Robbie here.’
Pip practically dropped the phone. He’d rung! So soon! She glanced at the kitchen clock, only twenty hours after they’d last spoken.
‘Hi,’ she mumbled.
‘I just wondered whether you’d had a chance to fix up a sitter yet?’ he said matter-of-factly, as though this was a normal thing to wonder, perfectly average, whereas Pip was certain that his wondering about such a thing was a miracle, a sensation. His tone ought to reflect that.
‘Erm, no, well, yes. Maybe.’
‘Which is it?’ Robbie asked, he sounded amused rather than fazed by her uncertainty.
‘I’m waiting for confirmation,’ added Pip with more clarity. She was aware that her knees were shaking. They were actually wobbling as though she was in a cartoon. Quickly, she flopped into one of the kitchen chairs.
She’d called Steph the moment she got off the train yesterday, before she’d even passed through the ticket barrier, but Steph hadn’t picked up. Pip had called twice since and had finally been forced to leave a message asking Steph to call back. She didn’t want to give too much away on the voicemail, so she hadn’t said that she needed a sitter because she’d been asked on a date. That sort of news was reserved for direct conversation only! Pip was looking forward to seeing Steph’s jubilant reaction.
‘I had a look at what’s on at the movies. There’s a crime slash action thriller, a costume drama, some romcom starring Anna Friel, or how do you feel about vampires?’