by Adele Parks
She was such a hypocrite.
Daisy argued that the long, lazy lunches weren’t as much fun for her as she always drove. She did most of the driving when Millie was with them. She never said anything directly, but he knew she didn’t quite trust him, didn’t think he was quite up to it. It was insulting if you thought about it, so he tried not to think about it. In all honesty, he did have a bit of a thick head, it was probably best that she drove. Simon hated Sundays. They were swamped with a sense of dread and impending doom. He always had a shot of whisky before he visited his mother. It took the edge off. He couldn’t quite remember when he’d started this habit, a year ago? Maybe more.
Dr Martell was back in his head today. The fucker. He thought he’d pushed him out but, today, he’d crawled back in.
Daisy was such a hypocrite.
At first, Simon thought they were going to have a good afternoon with his mother. She was dressed appropriately, smartly in fact. His mother used to have standards, she was a consistently beautiful, elegant woman, but that was no longer the case. He hated it when he found her wearing someone else’s scruffy tracksuit, maybe because the staff had got the washing mixed up, maybe because she’d stolen it. Today she was wearing a neat blue dress, tights and shoes. Not mismatched socks and grubby slippers. Someone had brushed her thin, white hair; even put on a bit of lipstick for her. There was some on her teeth but that was not necessarily anything to do with dementia, Daisy often had lipstick on her teeth. Simon felt cheered and had a quick slug from his flask by way of celebration. But then Elsie started to talk, and Simon realised the lipstick was just a mask for the chaos.
‘Who is this?’ Elsie demanded imperiously, pointing at Daisy.
‘It’s Daisy, Mum. My wife,’ Simon explained unenthusiastically.
Unperturbed, Daisy kissed his mum’s cheek. ‘Hello, Elsie. You’re looking lovely today. What a chic dress. Look, we’ve brought you some flowers.’
Millie sprang forward. Everything was a performance for her. She beamed and held out the yellow roses.
His mum stared at Daisy, Millie and the flowers with a mix of hostility and surprise. Then her face melted. It was like water. One minute frozen, the next liquid. Simon thought that one day she would evaporate. ‘Thank you, they are beautiful,’ she said graciously. ‘So, you are the new wife, are you? I like you far better than the last one. She was podgy and giggly. A horrible combination.’
Daisy sighed. It was a fact that she used to carry a few extra pounds, something Simon’s mother – a lifetime borderl ine anorexic – hated with a level of ferocity that most people reserved for paedophiles. Also, when Simon first met Daisy, her thing was giggling. She would frequently erupt into chortles and even outright laughter, when most people were only moved to wryly grin in amusement. Simon had thought it was a result of being a teacher, always being around kids. She found life fun, entertaining. He liked it about her. Now, he’d say her thing was sighing.
‘I’ll go and see if the nurse has a vase,’ said Daisy.
‘Go with your mum,’ Simon instructed Millie.
‘It’s not a two-person job,’ commented Daisy. ‘Millie, stay with your grandma. Tell her what you’ve been up to at school this week.’
Millie looked from left to right, eyes swivelling between her parents. She was an obedient child and found it confusing when they issued conflicting sets of instructions. Which they did with increasing frequency. She hovered near the door, unsure what to do. Simon chose to ignore her. The moment Daisy left the room, he started to rummage through his mother’s bedside cabinet.
‘What are you looking for?’ Millie asked.
‘Bedsocks,’ he lied.
Elsie suddenly engaged. ‘Are you looking for this?’ She held up a large print book.
‘No.’
‘Are you looking for this?’ She waved a banana.
‘No, I said bedsocks,’ he muttered impatiently. Simon found the gin at the back of the cabinet, behind the bed socks. His uncle Alan brought his mother a half bottle every week. It was an irresponsible gift to give a dementia sufferer but, no doubt, Alan believed any comfort he could offer the old lady was justified at this stage. Every Thursday when Alan visited, he secreted a bottle in the cupboard and he believed Elsie knocked it back throughout the week. She didn’t, but the gift was gratefully received. Simon quickly put it in his laptop bag, which he’d brought for this purpose. Millie looked at her feet.
‘Is this what you are looking for?’ Elsie pulled out her hearing aid and shoved it under his nose. Simon could see her ear wax on the plastic.
‘No, I told you—’
‘What are you looking for?’ This time, the question came from Daisy. She was stood in the doorway next to Millie, holding the flowers which were now in a vase of water.
‘Nothing. She’s confused, you know what she’s like.’ He turned away and looked out of the window. There wasn’t much to see. A carer was pushing an old man in a wheelchair around the small garden. It took less than thirty seconds for them to do a lap. The silence in the room was deafening. Simon wished his mother would say something. She could usually be relied upon to talk nonsense to fill a gap.
Daisy carefully placed the vase on the bedside cabinet. She bent and closed the cupboard door. ‘What did you put in your bag?’
‘Nothing.’
The room wasn’t large and, in the same instant, they both reached for his laptop case. Simon was slightly speedier. He hugged it to his chest.
‘What are you hiding?’ Daisy demanded.
‘Nothing, nothing at all,’ Simon insisted.
She started to try to prise the bag off him. Simon was taken aback that she was being so openly confrontational – what was wrong with her? – and so he momentarily slackened his grip. It was enough for her to get some purchase, she yanked the bag off him and opened it.
‘You brought gin here?’ she asked in disbelief.
‘No, I was taking it away.’
‘You were stealing her gin?’ She glanced at Millie who was trying not to look at her parents. Daisy’s shock was palpable. Simon felt it calcify, another layer of disappointment settling on their history.
‘Not stealing it. Taking it away for her own good. She shouldn’t be drinking. It messes with her meds. Alan brings her it every week.’
‘You steal from her every week?’ Daisy shook her head. Disgust oozed from her.
Simon didn’t answer. What was the point? She didn’t want to know. Not really. She’d prefer not to know that when he nipped into the other rooms, ostensibly to say hi to the other oldies, like a decent chap, he checked their bedside cabinets too. There was usually a quarter of whisky, a small bottle of sherry, at the very least. On a quiet week, he’d settle for a box of liqueurs. He told himself that he was doing them a favour. It was irresponsible to give la la old people alcohol. There could be accidents. He wasn’t stealing. They’d give it to him if he asked. They liked him. These old dears that smelt of pee. They all thought he was their son or husband. They didn’t know their arse from their elbow. Simon knew Daisy wouldn’t understand if he explained all of that, so instead he did the only thing he could think of, he lurched forward and grabbed the gin out of her hands. In an instant he’d unscrewed the top and started to down it. Glug, glug, glug. Temporarily, she was frozen. Then she reacted. She tried to knock the bottle out of his hand.
‘Stop it, Simon. For God’s sake, stop it.’
But if he stopped drinking she’d take it from him. He knew she would. She did succeed in spilling a fair amount down his shirt, which was a waste. He flopped back into the armchair and slung the empty bottle into the wastepaper basket. It landed with a satisfying clunk. He yelled, ‘In the back of the net,’ and punched the air. Millie giggled, nervously.
Daisy looked like a fish, her mouth was gaping. She was swirling, sort of gauzy. She looked from him, to the wastepaper basket and back again. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded.
The air between them shuddered.
/> ‘Him? Oh, he’s my husband. He’s always been rather too fond of the bottle, I’m afraid,’ said Elsie. She carefully patted the back of her hair with her frail, veiny hand. Then in a whisper, leaning towards Daisy, she added, ‘I find it’s best to ignore the matter. It doesn’t do to bring it up.’ She sighed, shook her head. ‘I only wish he had a hobby.’
Simon started to snigger. It was hilarious. It was just fucking hilarious.
11
Chapter 11, Daisy
Simon’s proposal to me was a fairy tale. Textbook. Perfect. It was at my sister Rose’s house just before Christmas, on the twins’ first birthday. Simon and I had been dating for not quite six months. I wasn’t expecting a proposal, I didn’t so much as dare dream about it. Honestly, that’s true. If I did dream about it, I’d wake myself up because I didn’t want to jinx anything. Even the idea of Simon liking me enough to want to date me was mind-blowing, the possibility that he might one day propose was out of this world. So I was not expecting a ring. He was an amazing boyfriend though, I already knew that. I thought I’d be getting maybe a necklace for Christmas or something especially meaningful, like an early edition of Little Women, my favourite book. We’d had the conversation about favourite books. We’d had so many conversations, late into the nights. He was easy to talk to.
The setting was very romantic. Rose’s house was dressed for Christmas, there were fresh, green garlands and white twinkling lights everywhere. Rose’s ‘mum friends’ naturally all had kids about the twins’ age and many of them had other siblings too so there were smallies everywhere. As usual, I spent a lot of time playing with the children that were old enough to understand games like hide and seek. Everyone I cared for most in the world was at that party: my parents, my sister, her husband and children and, as my sister had sort of adopted my gang, many of my closest friends were there too, including Connie and Luke. Whilst I was playing rowdy games with the kids, I was constantly watching the door because Simon was late. His absence was profound. I suddenly realised that almost everyone in the world I most cared for was at the party, but not everyone. He’d leap-frogged into that special position in my heart. He was the most important.
I was beginning to imagine all sorts of dreadful scenarios like he’d fallen under a bus or, worse still, he’d gone off me. No doubt he’d ditched the toddler party and the robust redhead and was sipping gin and tonics in a bar somewhere with a leggy brunette. Then suddenly, I spotted him. He was dressed as Santa with padding, a fake beard, a sack, the lot. I was pretty cross with Rose for roping him in for such a job; I couldn’t believe he’d really be comfortable with the role. On the other hand, I was totally delighted because he’d agreed to do it. I mean, no matter how shaky my self-esteem may have been, even I understood that a boyfriend dressing as Santa to entertain your baby nephews and their sticky, noisy, tiny friends, was an act of devotion. I intercepted him under the mistletoe. Giggly, blushing, breathless.
The kids that were old enough to have clue about what was going on were rustled into a line and Simon did the whole ‘ho ho ho’ thing. He followed the traditional script and asked each child what they wanted for Christmas and whether they’d been good that year. They nodded their little heads, wide eyed and expectant. On cue he delved into his huge sack and produced a present; I can’t remember what the gifts were, something tacky and plastic. I remember being surprised because I’d thought Rose would opt for chocolate coins and wooden puzzles. I do remember the children’s happy, excited faces. Their pink rosebud mouths lisping thank yous, following the prompts of their watchful mothers.
When all the children had received their treats and were beginning to get restless about what would come next in the constant stream of entertainment and goodies, Simon yelled above their noise, ‘There is one girl who hasn’t told Santa what she wants for Christmas, yet.’ He grabbed my hand and pulled me onto his knee. I was this exquisite mix of mortification and total utter joy. I’d never been happier than in that moment. I’m not normally a fan of being in the limelight and I’ve never been a fan of sitting on men’s knees, I feel too hefty and it’s uncomfortable. I could feel the colour rising in my cheeks, but still, I was delirious with happiness.
‘Now, Daisy, have you been good this year?’
I heard one of my friends make a joke referencing something lewd I’d told her, and I promised myself to stop over-sharing. I tried not to be distracted as I replied, ‘Quite good.’
‘Well, as much as I hate to disagree with you, I think you’ve been more than quite good. You’re wonderful and so I have a special present for you. If you’ll accept it.’
I didn’t guess. I heard my friends whisper that it was probably flights to somewhere exotic, but I couldn’t think clearly enough to hazard a guess, I was so in the moment. Overwhelmed. The room was tight with anticipation and excitement, everyone loves a bit of romantic theatre. At least we did then, now I wonder whether we’d all feel a bit embarrassed if one of us put on a similar show. You get too old for such blatant romance. Too weary, I suppose.
He continued, ‘In fact, you are unbelievably good. I never thought that I’d meet anyone quite so good, special and amazing.’ His voice was thick and heavy with sincerity and intent. ‘So, I would be honoured, ecstatic, if you’d accept my gift.’ Then he reached into his sack one more time and pulled out a small ring box. Suddenly everyone else disappeared. I mean, I know they were there, the collective intake of breath nearly starved the room of oxygen, but suddenly they didn’t matter to me, not my sister, my parents, my nephews, my friends, no one mattered, except him. His shiny eyes, his dark curly hair, his hopeful nervous smile. ‘Will you make me a very happy man, in fact, the happiest man alive, and agree to be my wife?’
Apparently, I screamed then repeatedly yelled ‘Yes’. I can’t remember that, but it seems reasonable. I can imagine it would be something I’d do. The happiness was almost painful, it was so complete and beautiful that, even whilst I was slipping the diamond on my finger, I was thinking This can’t last. This is too good. So, in that moment I was never happier or more afraid.
Everyone in the room cheered and applauded. People started singing, ‘For they are jolly good fellows’. That seems quaint now. It’s a lifetime ago. There was hugging and congratulating, lots of kissing and some crying and champagne corks popping; it was a luminous, glistening moment. Later, Simon confirmed that he’d come up with the entire plan on his own, not just the bit about giving me my ring in that way, but dressing as Santa, giving all the gifts to the children, everything. I worked out as much that evening, when we were snuggled up in his bed, post-coital, emotionally and physically elated and exhausted. The gifts were the tell. If Rose had been in charge she would have chosen different presents for the children, something less fun.
It was such a thoughtful, individual, perfect proposal. For a long time, I believed that moment would stay gleaming in my mind for ever, but it’s tarnished now. I’m embarrassed for them. That hopeful young woman, that ambitious young man, because we let them down. I have no idea where that man went.
Or that woman, come to think of it.
12
Chapter 12, Simon
Wednesday, 13th July 2016
The TV woke him up. He tried to focus, but it was tricky. There were a lot of voices talking across one another. What was he watching? Four middle-aged women, sitting on stools around a breakfast bar. They were wearing bright tops, but the gaiety was cancelled out by their angry faces. They were arguing although not with each other. Simon listened for a moment or two, long enough to gather they were angry with some man, or some male thing, yet there were no men there to shout at so they were shouting at each other and in general. It was almost funny.
He knew what it was, he knew it. Daisy loved this show. It was Loose Women. He didn’t know how he knew that, he was hardly the target audience, but he did. He felt remembering the name of the show was something. A small victory. Daisy sometimes watched it in the school holidays. A guilty pl
easure when she was ironing or doing something with Millie, crafting or whatever. It must be mid-morning. Why was he asleep in an armchair mid-morning? His head was fucking killing him. It was pulsing, pounding. He must be ill. That was it. He was off work because he was ill. He searched about for the remote control and noticed an empty bottle of red wine and an empty bottle of whisky at his feet. He ignored them. They didn’t make sense. Finding the remote was all that mattered. He had to mute the angry women. If only life was as easy. Unfortunately, even when he managed to shut them up, the screaming and yelling continued in his head. He didn’t know if it was real, or something he remembered, or just something he was imagining. It was sometimes hard to tell.
Simon looked out of the window, it was pitch black, dead of night, not mid-morning. He turned back to the TV confused. Definitely Loose Women. It took longer than it should but then he took a stab at sorting it out in his mind – it had to be a late night repeat. He checked his watch; it was tricky to focus, he couldn’t quite see the illuminated numbers. He was really ill. Maybe hallucinating, a fever? He’d heard something was going around, something serious. It was 3.15 a.m. Or maybe 5.15 a.m. He didn’t know or care. Not really. What was that smell? It was disgusting. Puke and sweat.
He noticed that his shirt and the arm of the chair were covered in vomit. Some of it had solidified, some of it still oozed. Sloppy and shaming. He peeled off his shirt, balled it up, tried not to let the puke slide onto the floor. He walked through to the kitchen and dropped the soiled garment on the floor, in front of the kitchen sink. He realised that he probably should put it in the washing machine, but he couldn’t, not right then. Too much effort. He wasn’t up to it. He was ill. Daisy would sort it out when she got up. He tried to remember yesterday. Had he come home from work sick? Had he gone into work at all? Maybe this was not a bug, maybe he’d had a few jars, eaten a curry with a bad prawn. He couldn’t remember eating. The puke didn’t smell of curries or prawns.