‘Nothing I can do except deny it all.’
*
After his mum had retired to bed, Nick stretched out on the sofa with the news for company, not really absorbing events. He must have dozed off because he woke two hours later with some comedy panel show blaring out at him. Fuck it, he was wide awake now and he had a massive meeting in the morning that had potential to creep into lunchtime, eating up his planning session, which meant he would have to stay late again. He’d wanted to get a proper night’s sleep.
What he never told his mum was that he was seeing someone at work. He texted her from his room.
You awake?
Yes, what you doing?
Can’t sleep.
Do you want me to help?
That would be nice…
His phone rang immediately.
‘Hello, do you want me to go upstairs? I can put something lacy on…’
After phone sex, Nick always felt a bit dirty, like he had somehow done something inherently wrong; he possessed enough self-awareness to know he was a walking male cliché. He always made valiant attempts to initiate a conversation afterwards, but Kelly wasn’t interested. He obviously preferred seeing Kelly in the flesh, but Kelly was also busy, so they met up after work if they had time, or on the odd weekend when she arranged a catch-up with a ‘friend’. She lived in north London with her husband, who was a lawyer, and had two kids – he couldn’t even remember their ages but he knew they were old enough to go to school, but not old enough to be left on their own. The north-south London divide was almost as much of an obstacle as the fact Kelly was essentially unavailable. People would make jokes about needing a passport to come all the way over to East Dulwich, and Nick found Crouch End to be the back of beyond. He liked Kelly, though. This arrangement had worked now for six months without it getting out of control or needy on either side, but he could tell it was running out of steam, becoming harder to find the time. He could hear it in her voice, like he was another tick on her to-do list. She was a paralegal in another part of the building so he didn’t have much to do with her. Being Director of Digital Transformation for the CPS meant he never came into contact with her or any of her team.
This was the longest Nick had come to having a ‘regular’ connection with someone since Shelley, even if it was about to draw to a close. He wondered which one of them would pull the plug first. He had previously dated women on and off, had his Tinder and Bumble accounts as backup, but work was paramount. He had some friends in the area he saw for football and beers, but he shied away from the Mews. He hadn’t felt the need to buddy up with anyone. He liked living here because it was gated, he would get more money should he want to rent out one of the other three bedrooms, and he could park outside knowing his Audi wasn’t going to get bashed by some joyrider or white van when he was at work.
He’d spotted Ali on Tinder in the last month, but she’d since vanished. He wondered whether she was now with that tall black guy she lived next door to. They looked very cosy every time he spotted them together. She was Nick’s usual type – tall, blonde, athletic-looking, with something very sweet about her eyes. She definitely had a presence. When his mum had fallen, she was the only person he could instantly think of that he felt comfortable asking for help. He didn’t know why; he’d only seen a close-up photo of her on his phone, and he knew Jo, the small officious one at the end, would have stepped in just as admirably. But he had to be careful who he invited in now Norman was continually sniffing around, prying, desperate to prove something. Why it bothered Norman he had no idea. It wasn’t like the smell of drains or dead rats (they released a deadly stench and attracted flies too).
Nick closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but all he could see once the darkness enclosed was Ali’s face, smiling, being kind to his mum, making her laugh.
20
It Takes a Village
‘I’m not going to be around in two weeks’ time to have Grace.’ Jim said shiftily when I picked her up after work. His eyes kept darting away to some indeterminate space above my left shoulder. I waited on his front garden’s bricked path for Grace to gather her things.
‘Really? How long are you away for?’ I felt my shoulders sag as I reluctantly leaped into the future, flicking through my mental diary, checking what potential fuck-ups it would throw my way.
‘For ten days. Mum’s not well and I said I’d go down and stay, work from hers. She’s got to have an op.’ His right eye twitched feverishly, catapulting me into a flashback, a night where I recalled throwing a full mug of steaming tea at Jim’s head from across the kitchen, missing him by a hair’s breadth. The mug had exploded against the white wall, just below the oversized clock. Jim’s eye had twitched that night too as he had impatiently tried to explain his late arrival (midnight) for dinner with my parents. Grace had only been a week away from landing. He had been drunk and spewing a poisonous stream of venom in my face.
I had work in two weeks’ time. Two jobs, one of them an overnighter in the Midlands for Next. No one could have Grace. Hattie was at work, Mum was on a holiday those two weeks, some sightseeing tour for gimmers in Italy, and Amanda had two different school runs already. The maw of debt opened wide and threatened to chew me up again; I was going to have to turn the jobs down.
‘I can have Grace for extra time once I’m back.’
I sighed. That didn’t appease my runaway heartbeat. ‘Grace, hurry up, Mummy’s waiting.’
I pulled up outside my house, still inwardly fretting, wishing for a time in the future when I wouldn’t waste so much energy fighting against the fire-pit of fear constantly stoked in my belly. It was so isolating. I didn’t hear Elinor the first time she called out.
‘Ali! I said, are you OK?’ She was watering her budding pots of geraniums outside the front door.
‘Sorry, I’m miles away. How are you?’
‘I’m very well. Something’s up with you, I can tell.’
Out of nowhere a lump forced itself up my throat, choking off my words, making my eyes leak. Black Beauty began but it was too late.
‘Oh, no, what’s happened? Grace, do you want to come in to mine? Tinkerbell and Princess are in there watching a film.’ Grace nodded shyly and slipped past Elinor, through our shared front door and into her house. The panic of the last few weeks, Alice’s disappearance and now the thought of having to let those jobs go crashed down around my ears. I was usually so good at spinning plates.
‘Jim’s going away for ten days during a busy time for me at work and I haven’t got childcare. But it’s not just that…’ The entire story came tumbling out in disjointed bursts as Elinor patted my back with one hand and gripped her watering can with the other. ‘I feel like I never quite make it. When I get money, something happens to spirit it away again. I’m forever chasing my tail.’
‘Ah, you poor thing. I know exactly how you feel.’
‘You do?’
Elinor placed the watering can down on the drive just as Jo, Debbie and Francesca emerged from Debbie’s next door.
‘Yes! I spent my early years as a working mum when not many were doing it in the eighties. Phil was playing away from home the entire time I was senior buyer at Debenhams and had to travel to Asia on buying missions. He would tootle off to his fancy-pants lady of the moment and I would be left the night before a flight with three kids and no one to have them for me. It was a bloody nightmare.’
‘Oh, Elinor, why did you stay with him?’
‘Because I was scared of being on my own. It was different then. But as time went on, I realised I was on my own anyway, and left him. He couldn’t see our marriage had died a death from a thousand sluts.’ She laughed flatly to herself. ‘He fought it tooth and nail, which is why it took so long and I was only free of him when I was fifty. The children don’t have much contact with him now. They were old enough then to see what a bastard he really was and not this man who showered them with money; he was really papering over the cracks of his absentee parenting. Tha
t’s why Karen let her kids choose their own names – he admitted when he was drunk that he’d named her after one of his fancy women.’
‘What?’
‘I know! What a shit. She didn’t want the girls to feel anything negative about their own names, so as soon as they were able she changed them by deed poll.’
‘Well, they’re, er… interesting. They’ll make good TV presenters.’
She shook her head laughing. ‘Princess and Tinkerbell? Don’t try and be nice. Maybe one day they’ll change them to something normal, but maybe not. Anyway, they’re lovely girls.’
‘Ladies, mothers’ meeting, is it?’ Jo cawed, sporting a pair of eye-bleeding-orange leggings, a démodé fluffy blue jumper and red flip-flops. Classic Jo.
‘Yes,’ Elinor replied. I realised my cheeks were still wet with tears and hastily wiped them, but Francesca had eagle eyes.
‘What’s up, Ali? Are you OK?’
‘I am now Elinor welcomed me into the sisterhood of single working mothers. I’d no idea you had worked in fashion too!’ Women had been juggling life since the dawn of time and we always managed it. Hold the baby while I chisel this arrowhead out of a shard of flint, there’s a good man, and I just need to send your mum a birthday card. The mental load was real.
‘Do you need some help?’ Debbie asked kindly. ‘Tell us what’s happening and we might be able to come up with a solution. I know how emotionally draining being a single mum can be. If you ever need help with Grace, we’ll rally round. It’s not a bumper sticker – it’s the truth. We all mean it, don’t we, ladies?’ All four of them nodded earnestly as I regurgitated my sorry tale of woe… ‘Now, what are the exact dates and we’ll come up with a plan?’
A single tear ran down my cheek and dropped off my chin.
‘What’s the matter now?’ Jo cried, throwing her arms up in the air and then grasping my hands.
‘Nothing, you’re all just so lovely. Honestly, they’re happy tears. You have no idea how worried I’ve been about it all. I guess I bury stuff sometimes.’
‘Well, there’s no point burying loads of shit under the carpet, is there?’ Jo said pragmatically, giving me a hug, her head only reaching my shoulder. ‘It only makes it harder to hoover.’
And just like that, the fear blew itself out, headed off at the pass by the welcoming conviviality of the Mews.
21
The Airing Cupboard
‘Ah, hello,’ Nick said, his eyes darting away over my head. As usual he looked like he was off to a nineties rave; he was just missing some white gloves.
‘I wondered if your mum would like to try on some of these clothes. I got a load from Marks and Spencer and some other shops. I can leave them here; I’m not trying to intrude or anything. I’m off out in a bit anyway.’
I hadn’t stopped thinking about Linda since I’d met her. There was something about her that I’d identified with. I thought it was sad that she didn’t feel she could go shopping any more and I had to agree with her: online wasn’t the same. As a stylist, I need to feel the material, see how it hangs, check for pocket details (everyone loves pockets!) and you can generally get an idea of how it will look. Though there are always the on-hanger corpses. You know the ones – looks like someone had used it to wipe a skanky toilet floor, then on it goes, ta-dah, somehow it’s transformed into some exquisite sheath of fabulousness that makes you look like a total goddess. I call it the Cinderella moment: from rags to bitches.
Linda deserved to have some fun and she needed to try on some clothes that would make her feel and look marvellous. So many people think fashion is vacuous and style over substance, but I see a different side. I’ve done countless makeovers in women’s mags for ladies who have suffered hardships, have forgotten to take care of themselves and lost that integral part that loves finding joy in the small things. Just the gesture of telling that woman to try a different set of clothes from her utilitarian uniform can make a huge difference to someone’s day. It’s not frivolous, it’s self-care and it changes people’s frame of mind, makes them remember who they were before the proverbial shit hit the fan.
‘Is that Ali?’ Linda called from inside the house.
‘Yes,’ Nick shouted gruffly.
‘Invite her in. I’ve got some wine here.’ Nick stood back and dramatically swept his hand like a doorman in a fancy hotel. I found her in the kitchen sitting at the table, a bottle of red wine in the centre and two glasses.
‘Did you know I was coming?’ I laughed. ‘I spotted you arrive earlier when I was curtain twitching!’
‘I hoped you would. I asked Nick if he would invite you anyway, but I think you can tell what he said about that.’ She giggled and I joined in. Nick must have felt like his balls were in a vice. ‘I watched your vlog – it was so fun. Did the last one star the woman from over the road?’
‘Yes, we asked Francesca and her two daughters to take part. We really do need people to make over rather than just us.’
‘I think you and that Lila girl from The X Factor were so good together.’
‘Thank you! I have some clothes here I thought you might like to try on.’
‘Really? For me?’ I suddenly hoped I hadn’t done the wrong thing, assuming she would want to try them on. Her chin wobbled slightly.
‘Yes, I saw them when I was out scouting clothes for the vlog. I thought they might suit you. You had said how much you liked fashion.’
‘Oh, you dear. That’s so kind.’ I brought the bags round so she could rifle through. Nick came in and leaned against the cooker. ‘Here have some wine.’ She picked up the bottle but her hand was wobbling. Nick dived over and took it from her, pouring wine into the two glasses. ‘Nick, for the love of God, have a glass!’ she chastised. ‘It’s Saturday!’
‘Mum, you should probably just have one glass too.’ He gave her a coded look and she rolled her eyes as he poured himself a small measure. The doorbell rang loudly, making me jolt my drink. I was terrified of ring-staining the surgical kitchen and wiped the glass with my sleeve, unable to spot a cloth anywhere.
I could hear some chatting and then a raised voice. Linda stood up and made a move to go to the front door, but the effort of just standing was too much, forcing the colour to drain from her cheeks.
‘Linda, why don’t I go instead?’
‘Would you, dear? I think Nick is getting hassle again from that gentleman next door.’
‘Nosy Norman?’
‘Ah, yes,’ she giggled. ‘You’ve come across him too?’
I nodded.
‘He can’t keep his beak out of things, can he?’
‘Everything OK, Nick?’ I said as I hovered behind him in the hallway. Norman was standing on the step looking particularly aggrieved in what could only be described as lounge wear – navy silk PJs.
‘Yes, just some neighbourly banter,’ he replied.
‘I disagree,’ Norman said petulantly. ‘I’m sick of the stink in the upstairs of my house. It’s got worse this week and all my towels in the airing cupboard are smelling now too. Don’t say you can’t smell anything in there, Alison.’
I quietly breathed in through my nose.
‘All I can smell is the Jo Malone diffuser, Norman,’ I said innocently. ‘Maybe something is rotting under your floorboards or a dead mouse is decomposing in your airing cupboard. Amanda and I always used to have dead mice under the floorboards when they ate the rat poison. The smell lingers for weeks.’ He looked at me like I was mad. ‘Do you want me to come and check for you?’
‘If it’s a mouse it’s been dying for a year.’
‘It could be an infestation,’ Nick joined in. ‘I might have mice too, in that case. I can check in my airing cupboard and look for evidence. They could be sneaking between the two houses because that’s where the party wall is thinnest.’
‘I want to come and inspect your upstairs.’
‘There’s nothing up there. I can’t smell anything, Ali can’t smell anything, you are the one wit
h the bad smell, not me. Why don’t we help you find out what it is in your house?’
Nick’s frank reasonableness wiped the floor with Norman’s concern.
‘Fine! Come round then.’ He flounced off the step and walked round to his front door.
‘Mum, we’re just going next door.’
We walked into the dimly lit hallway to find an imposing floor-to-ceiling gilt-framed poster of La Cage aux Folles leading the way up the stairs.
‘I love that poster,’ I said. It was stunning – a dancer swathed in a bright red feather dress wrapped herself down one side.
‘Thank you,’ he said tersely. ‘I worked on that show.’
‘No way! Where?’ I was impressed.
‘I did a tour in rep, years ago, all round the country.’
‘Are you an actor?’ I grilled him. Nick remained silent.
‘No. Come on, it’s worse just here on the landing.’
When we reached the door to the airing cupboard Norman turned to look at us.
‘I can’t smell anything,’ Nick admitted.
‘Me neither.’ I really couldn’t, but then that could be because my nose was so accustomed to the stronger smell next door. I didn’t know what to say even if I could smell something.
Norman huffed and pulled open the door. We peered inside at the yellow water tank and piles of towels neatly stacked above it on wooden slatted shelves. I breathed in the musty smell of hot brass pipes and unmistakably pungent weed. Cunty McFucksticks.
‘Now?’ he demanded.
‘There’s a definite smell of something, but I’m not sure what,’ I said after a moment of working out my reply.
‘It smells of weed,’ Norman boldly stated. ‘Don’t go telling me it’s something else. I’ve been around the block enough to know what it is, and it’s coming from your house.’
‘But I don’t smoke weed,’ Nick said, aghast.
‘I’ve poked as far as I can all around the tank and can’t find anything. It must be coming from your house.’
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