The Lonely Fajita

by Abigail Mann

  ‘You had no right.’

  ‘I know, but it doesn’t matter, Annie. Richard wants to come and see you. With the boys. I thought … I thought it would help.’

  ‘I never asked you to.’ Annie closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose. I thought she’d be annoyed, but not like this. If only she’d found out when her grandsons were here, she wouldn’t be angry. How could she be?

  I feel cold, from the inside out. When Annie speaks, her voice is bold and defiant. ‘You don’t know.’

  ‘What don’t I know?’ I ask, angry now. ‘I don’t know anything because you won’t tell me. You shut down every time I ask. This is your son, your grandchildren.’

  ‘Don’t you think I know that?’ says Annie sharply, turning around. Her eyes shine and she briskly wipes them with the back of her hand. ‘Don’t remind me of what I’ve lost. I’m reminded every bloody day. Every day,’ she repeats, her voice wavering.

  ‘I’m sorry. I thought it would be nice. I thought it might make you happy.’

  ‘You don’t know.’ Annie looks to the ceiling and draws a deep, jagged breath. ‘This won’t help, what you’ve done. I accepted it long ago, and so has he.’

  ‘But he wants to come over. He wants to see you.’

  ‘Only because you strung him a story about a silly old woman who’s locked herself away from the world.’

  ‘Is that what you think?’ I say, the words catching in my throat.

  ‘His father took all the grievances he had about me and pushed them into Richard’s head. Why did he grow up with parents who couldn’t bear to be in the same room? Me. Why did he never get a hug off his dad? My fault. Why did his father take up every overseas tenure he were offered? Because I pushed him to do it. Because I was selfish and jumped into bed with someone else. Someone who was stupid enough to make me think that I was worthy of anything resembling love.’

  Annie’s words hang in the air.

  ‘Annie … I’m sorry, I—’

  ‘Didn’t think?’ She picks up two cups and slides them onto the open shelf next to the window.

  ‘I don’t know what to do.’ I shift from one foot to the other and a stark beam of sunlight hits me square in the eye. When I close them, flares of orange and green burst on the back of my eyelids. ‘What can I do?’

  ‘Give me some time,’ says Annie. She pulls the tea towel through her hand and hangs it from a knob on the cutlery drawer. I nod and step backwards into the living room, swing my bag onto my shoulder, and leave.

  Chapter 31

  ‘Are you gonna get dressed today?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Okay,’ says Suki, lacing up her plimsolls. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to ask Leon about the job?’

  ‘No. I’m not ready to think about doing the whole social media thing for a while.’

  Suki puts a bit of dry toast in her mouth and takes a tub from the fridge to put in her satchel. ‘Do what you need to do, babe.’ She flicks crumbs off her chest and pulls her trousers up by the belt loops. ‘Help yourself to anything from the cupboards. Be good.’ With a wink, she’s wheeling her bike out the door and I’m left alone.

  In an effort to differentiate between day and night, I fold up the spare duvet I’ve been sleeping under for the past three nights and sit back in the same position, except this time I’ve showered, which is more than I can say for yesterday. I track time by what adverts are shown on telly. Around 11 a.m. you’ve got life insurance and funeral payment plans, at 1 p.m. there’s bingo, and at 3 p.m. the kids’ toys come on, which are a total assault on the senses.

  I decide that it would be a good idea to at least look like I’ve not been a human slug all day and move from the sofa to the breakfast bar with my laptop. I refresh the seven or eight job sites I’ve got open every couple of hours, but each new listing that I’m (somewhat) qualified for is more underwhelming than the last. There’s always a juicy hook in the job title, like ‘Senior Online Community Manager’, but when you start reading, it turns out that you’re on a zero-hours contract, the office is in Croydon, and the only person you’re managing is yourself. I’ve only got until tomorrow before I have to give the laptop back. After that, I’ll be down the local library trying to wrangle a computer from one of the blokes who only ever seem to look at pictures of Jessica Simpson from 2002.

  I look at my phone for the 7,314th time since I left Evergreen Village. Annie hasn’t called, and I’m absolutely terrified of ringing her myself, which I know is super cowardly, but she was the one who needed time. Of all the consequences I’ve considered since the email incident, I’ve whittled it down to the three most likely. One: she won’t forgive me and will want a new companion, someone who has such a vibrant life that they won’t over-involve themselves in hers. Two: she’s reported me to ElderCare and I’m now on a list of ‘people who exploit the elderly’. Three: she’s died of shock in the greenhouse and because it’s my fault I’ll get tried for manslaughter and go to prison. Amongst it all, I keep replaying everything she said to me. I thought I carried around too much misplaced guilt, but if mine’s a pebble, Annie’s is a mountain. Surviving years and years of an oppressive husband and not ending up with the person you truly love is enough to skew anyone’s sense of self-worth.

  Each time my phone tinkles my stomach does a flip, but so far it’s only been messages about the fair. I haven’t cancelled anything. I can’t bring myself to do it. The compost guy I spoke to earlier said he can hold off a delivery until tomorrow morning, and the marquee is getting put up today, so the fair is still going ahead, whether I’m there or not. I think of the plans we’d pinned to the board in Annie’s kitchen, and the folder of receipts she’d organised with little tabs. If she still won’t speak to me by the weekend, I’ll have to come up with another plan.

  Just as I’m on my way to the fridge to see if there’s a corner of cheese I can nibble, Suki gets back from work. I hold the door open as she rocks the bike onto its back wheel. ‘Jazz home?’ she asks.

  ‘Nope, not yet.’

  ‘Great, I’ve got some fucking good gossip.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘So, I was having a beer at lunch with some of the tech guys and – you’re gonna lose your shit, mate, hang on,’ Suki says. She lowers herself onto the swing and pulls her ankle onto the opposite knee. ‘You know all the investors bailed on Lovr, right?’

  ‘Yeah, we got told that already.’

  ‘But do you know why they bailed?’

  ‘I assumed it was because they didn’t like what we’d done so far with the re-brand.’

  ‘Wrong.’ Suki pushes back and swings, pinching the ropes between her elbows. ‘You know when Mitchell and Rhea were going up to Manchester to talk bollocks on a panel about “leadership in tech”?’ I nod. Suki’s unashamed glee is infectious and I find myself mirroring her smile. ‘Well, he was fucking lying. He’s been booking a suite for weeks at a time and claimed it as a dodgy business expense. He’s done it loads over the past eighteen months. Except he was never at a conference or having meetings. He was shagging Rhea and using Lovr’s capital to pay for it. A thousand pounds a night! That’s why you guys went bust. He only got found out because someone saw him in the hotel lobby when he was supposed to be in Dublin at a big tech expo. Oh, and he’s been fiddling the books. What a fucking ringpiece!’

  ‘Stop!’

  ‘Babe, I’m serious. Everyone’s been talking about it. Adam knew something months ago, so he’s shitting it.’

  I whistle and lean on the kitchen counter. ‘You know that photo of Mitchell’s bare arse is useless now, don’t you? You’ve lost your leverage.’

  ‘I know! I thought about that on the way over. Gutted, mate.’

  ‘I can’t believe it.’

  ‘Really? I can.’

  ‘Fair point. God, it’s disappointing, isn’t it? That men like that live up to every poor standard going?’

  ‘It’s why I won’t go near them, babe. That and the whole … peni
s thing just freaks me out, you know?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘What’s up? I thought you’d be fucking thrilled.’

  ‘What? No, I am. It’s just … I can’t believe no one’s said anything before now. I’m still getting work emails and there’s been nothing. I mean, it’s pretty quiet but—’ I scroll through the mail I’ve sporadically received and hover over the thread between me and Richard. All my accounts have been streamed into one folder, and for some ungodly reason, I’ve overlooked this one. Suki hops off the swing and reads over my shoulder.

  ‘What is it? Please let it be another picture of them at it—’ She turns to face me. ‘Oh, mate. Did you know he was coming?’

  ‘He wasn’t supposed to be here until next week. Fuck! If Richard turns up now, Annie’s going to lose it.’ I scan down the email again. ‘Oh God. Yep, his sons are with him too.’

  ‘When did he send the email?’

  I look at the time stamp. ‘Yesterday. But that might be Australian yesterday?’

  ‘So, he could either be flying over Asia, or he’s been in London for –’ Suki presses a button on her Casio watch ‘– seven hours.’

  ‘Shit! I’ve got to get over there.’

  ‘How come? Leave them to it. I’m sure they’ll be fine,’ says Suki, kicking off her shoes. She opens the fridge, unscrews the cap of a cranberry-juice carton, and swigs from it.

  ‘I was meant to be meeting him in Hampstead, to mediate.’

  Suki raises her eyebrows in quiet disbelief and shrugs. ‘You poked the bear. Get over there, zookeeper.’

  ***

  By the time I turn the corner onto Evergreen Lane, my trainers are rubbing so much I’m hopping on every other step. Suki ordered me a taxi, but there was so much traffic around Belsize Park that I jumped out and ran the rest of the way, quickly realising why these shoes have spent the last few months at the back of the wardrobe. I stop before the archway into the Village and try to swallow enough oxygen to stop my ribs from twinging. What am I going to say?

  The next challenge is to get across the green without being stopped by any of the neighbours, which is near impossible without tunnelling underground. As I hobble through the archway, Nigel pops up behind the stable door that leads to the porter’s office.

  ‘Miss Elissa!’

  ‘Oh, yes, hi,’ I say, trying to look equal parts impatient and courteous.

  ‘I have a number of delivery notes for you. And Mrs Poulter has er … quite a long list that she’s wanting to show you.’ Thank God for the Margarets of this world. I’m sure I’ll be explicitly reminded of everything I’ve forgotten to do by the time she’s finished with me. ‘This fair has kept us busy,’ he chuckles. ‘My mum has won Scrabble three times this week. Three! I’ve not sat down for long.’

  ‘I’m sorry if you’ve been rushed off your feet because of me, but, er … Nigel, has Annie had any visitors at all?’ I say, tucking a coil of hair behind my ear. Nigel disappears into the office and comes back with a battered logbook. He traces down the page and taps his finger somewhere near the bottom.

  ‘Yes. This morning. An Australian gentleman. And two boys. Very … energetic.’ My stomach jolts.

  ‘Are they still there?’

  ‘Yes, Miss.’

  ‘Oh God.’

  ‘Is everything okay?’

  ‘Yep.’ I hover in the archway, my hand pressed to my forehead.

  ‘Would you like the delivery notes now?’

  ‘No. I mean yes, but not right now. I just need to, ah … yep.’

  Leaving Nigel bemusedly holding the logbook, I break out onto the green and squint as the bright sunshine reflects off the sides of a white marquee, its unpegged tarpaulin undulating in the breeze. A little further on, three men in chunky boots and cargo shorts unroll another, smaller one, which creaks and strains as it unfurls onto the grass.

  I unlatch Annie’s front gate and walk up to the door, my heart racing. Beside the dull thud of a mallet hitting wooden pegs, I can’t hear a thing. I rap the door with soft knuckles. Nothing. The longer I stand, the more jittery I feel. I pull the bell rope and hear it ring somewhere inside the house. Still, nothing. Tapping my thigh, I stand on tiptoes to look through the stained glass in the front door, but all I can see is a darkened hallway in a spectrum of colours. Glancing over my shoulder, I scan the green’s perimeter to see Margaret straining over her garden fence. Her eyes narrow and she darts indoors. Sure enough, she emerges seconds later with a clipboard and marches up the garden path, elbows first. No. Not now! I panic and try the door, which is mercifully unlocked, and close it behind me, my breath shallow.

  I expect to hear screaming, banging, and voices bitter with decades of bad blood. At the very least, some weeping; that’s what years watching Australian soaps have taught me about domestic conflict. But amongst the familiarity of cups clunking on wood, and the scraping of chair legs on kitchen tiles, there’s laughter. Children’s laughter. The kind that comes straight from the belly. More disconcerted than anything else, I lean around the door frame and look past the living room into the kitchen, where Annie is sitting at the scrubbed dining table. Beside her sits a broad-shouldered man with a short beard and a very tanned bald patch. Spread across the table are the letters I’d found in Annie’s bedside weeks before. I take a step into the living room and make it all the way up to the food hatch before Annie notices me. She puts down her teacup, but doesn’t say anything. My bag slips off my shoulder and dangles from the crook of my arm.

  ‘Hey! Elissa, right?’ says the man. He pushes back his chair and stands, reaching out a hand to shake mine. I take it and reluctantly make eye contact, noticing Annie’s brow line and pale blue eyes in a different face. If you took away the tan and gave him a bit of a real-ale gut, he wouldn’t look out of place propping up a pub bar. ‘Richard. Richard De Loutherberg. Mum’s told me a lot about you,’ he says in an English accent clipped with an Australian twang. Ordinarily, I’d follow a statement like that with ‘all good things I hope?’ but that seems like a highly inflammatory move, everything considered. I cough to clear my throat.

  ‘It’s really nice to meet you. Look, I’m so sorry about how this turned out.’ I want to look at Annie, but I can’t bring myself to do it. ‘I feel like a prize-winning twat. Oh, sorry. I mean, I feel like an idiot,’ I say, flushing pink as a boy of around eight appears on the back doorstep, looking at me with curiosity. ‘I shouldn’t have got involved.’

  ‘You’re right. You shouldn’t have,’ says Annie, getting to her feet to stand next to Richard. ‘But I’m bloody glad you did.’

  ‘Really?’ I say, my throat tightening.

  ‘I’ll just be out with the boys,’ says Richard, patting Annie on the shoulder. She reaches up to touch his fingers, but he slips away and heads outside, leaving her with one arm awkwardly crossed over her chest. Richard scoops the boy up with one arm and he howls in cheerful protest, followed by his brother, who roars like a dinosaur.

  ‘Now Richard knows everything,’ she says softly, watching her son in the garden, as the boys throw crab apples at his back. ‘He didn’t take it too well, not to begin with. He had a good relationship with his father, and I can’t take that away from him, no matter how ’is dad were with me. But he knows enough. I don’t want to explain it away. Just help him understand … why I did it. Why I went with Harold. He doesn’t get why I didn’t just leave Arthur, but when you’ve got nothing of your own and in those times … it weren’t an option. And it were my fault that I let it poison the family. I’ll hold my hands up to that,’ Annie says, swallowing. She fiddles with her necklace and takes my hand. Hers is silken and cold to the touch. ‘I didn’t want a live-in companion, but I thought it might get rid of Craig, so I did it anyway. I didn’t think I’d have a second chance with my son, but, well, here he is. There’s no point counting yesterdays when we’ve got tomorrows.’ I blink and take a deep breath in, pulling her into a hug.

  ‘That’s really good. You should get that
put on a magnet,’ I say, laughing through sniffled tears. Annie pulls away and jokingly slaps my hand like she’s telling off a small child.

  ‘Cheeky.’ She smiles and dabs at her waterline with the soft underside of her thumb. ‘You back, then? I’d planned to have another “fall” if you hadn’t turned up by tomorrow,’ she says, winking. ‘That got you rushing back last time.’

  I groan and smile inwardly. ‘Yep. If you’ll have me.’

  ‘Gi’ o’er,’ she says. I must look confused, because she rolls her eyes and bumps me softly with an elbow. ‘Course I’ll have you.’ Her gaze wanders over my shoulder and when her eyes widen, I turn to follow it. Outlined through a patchwork of stained glass is a bouffant helmet of hair. ‘Oh, ’eck. It’s Margaret. And I think she’s got her clipboard.’

  Chapter 32

  ‘Bit to the left. Bit to the right. No, back the other way. Not that way, the other way. George, are you listening to me? Left, no LEFT!’ barks Margaret from the other side of the road. George stands on an upturned bucket and I’m halfway up a stepladder with a length of gardening twine clamped between my teeth and an arm that’s slowly turning blue. George pats his head with a handkerchief and readjusts the banner that we’re trying to winch up the fence.

  ‘How about now, sweetheart?’ he says to Margaret, wobbling as he looks over his shoulder, which causes his hand to shift a few inches down again.

  ‘George, I can’t hold this up for much longer. I’m going for it,’ I say, chucking the string over a wooden post. I shake my arm out and tie a crude knot as George finishes off a maritime twist and steps carefully off the bucket.

  ‘It’s the tiniest bit skewy, but I’m sure it’ll do,’ says George as he rolls his shirt sleeves up.

  ‘It absolutely will not,’ exclaims Margaret. Hitching up her skirt, she strides up the stepladder I’ve just vacated, her bottom lip a thin line of disapproval. She fiddles with my inexpert knot and pulls the string taut like she’s the skipper on a racing yacht. George and I share a look as she nimbly hops down, dropping her pleated skirt in a way that suggests she has no time for modesty.