She sits up and turns, looking towards the door, which was closed last night and now is wide open.
She dresses quickly because it is cold in her bedroom. She glances down the corridor to the door at the end, which is still firmly closed. She must have not shut her own door properly after all, she thinks. Or Basil has pushed it wide. She goes downstairs and uses the bathroom next to the utility room so as not to wake Will, then pulls her boots on and her coat, and takes the dogs out. They run off immediately, chasing rabbits and whatever else they can find, sniffing the perimeter of the garden and then out into the field. Heavy rain has fallen again overnight and the ground is boggy with it. The wind has dropped, but it is still blowing from the north and feels icy now. She had hoped to work on some new drawings this morning but it might even be too cold for the workshop.
By the time she gets back to the house her hands are stinging with the cold. In the porch she toes off her boots and hangs up her coat. The dogs follow her as she puts the kettle on to make tea. She wonders if she should cook up some bacon, or sausages, and make him a sandwich. That used to be the trick to get Louis out of bed.
In the end she makes a pot of tea, drinks a mug of it and goes to the utility room to get the clothes out of the dryer.
It’s empty.
She goes upstairs. The door at the end of the corridor is wide open now. The bed has been stripped, the sheets and duvet cover neatly folded at the end of the bed. On the bare mattress is a single sheet of paper.
It says, simply:
THANKS AGAIN SEE YOU SOON
And he has scrawled his mobile number beneath it. Sarah sits on the edge of the bed and stores Will’s number into her phone.
An hour later, Sarah is in the workshop, tidying up her desk before starting work on the next illustration for The Candy Cotton Piglet at the Circus. She has already done nine out of the standard twelve pages of the book, and she has made preliminary sketches for the whole thing. At this stage, the Candy Cotton Piglet usually throws some kind of wobbly and she ends up having to make dramatic changes.
It’s hard to keep motivated for this book. After all, no one is waiting for it. The last two books in the series, complete, illustrated and reworked, have not been published. Her agent has tried to place them with various publishers, but, despite the early successes, none of the books she has done since Jim’s death have sold. Sadly, the new drawings lack the vibrancy and spirit of the original books in the series, her editor said. Meanwhile, sales of the vibrant, spirited first books have dwindled to almost nothing. No new editions have been suggested following a large quantity of returns after the last one, and it looks likely that they will soon be out of print.
Perhaps you should try something new? her agent ventured. A new character – something a bit livelier?
She could do this. But for some reason the Candy Cotton Piglet won’t let her. She has tried to draw other creatures – a dog, and, for a while, a hare called Arabella – but each time she ends up coming back to the Piglet and drawing more adventures. She cannot finish anything, now, because if she does she will have to show someone and that will inevitably lead to more rejection. Nothing she does is any good.
And yet, she persists.
The workshop always takes a while to warm up, even though there is an oil-filled radiator in here which is kept on at all times, to prevent the pipes from freezing – not to mention her paints.
Unexpectedly, the sun is shining through the skylights, bright shafts slanting across to the workshop floor. In each of the two rectangles of glorious light, a dog lies sprawled. She stands and stretches. The workshop has a kitchen of sorts, a butler sink in which she cleans her brushes and a work surface that has a kettle and a coffee machine that she doesn’t use because it takes an age to build up enough pressure and then produces a single shot of muddy-looking coffee that is never quite hot enough. In the workshop, it’s usually tea. She flicks the switch on the kettle and walks the length of the workshop while she is waiting for it to boil.
Her mobile phone rings. Usually if she is working she switches it off, but as she hasn’t started yet it trills and starts skipping over the work surface. It’s Kitty.
‘Hello, beautiful girl! How are you doing?’
‘Hi, Mum! I’m all right, how are you?’
‘Fine, fine. What are you up to?’
‘I’m just walking up to the library, then I’m going to meet up with Oscar and Suze later. Nothing too exciting. What are you doing? Are you working?’
Sarah can hear the sounds of traffic, hopes that her daughter is paying attention when she crosses the road.
‘Haven’t started yet. So how’s Oscar?’
‘Oh, he’s lovely. I can’t wait for you to meet him, Mum.’
Sarah smiles.
‘So can I assume from that that Oscar is more than just a friend now?’
‘Well… yes, I guess he is.’
‘In that case I can’t wait to meet him either. When are you coming home?’
‘Next weekend, if that’s all right? That’s what I’m ringing about. Is it okay if I bring Oscar?’
Kitty has a boyfriend. Oscar isn’t her first, of course. She had a few boyfriends at school, only one of them lasting longer than a few months.
‘Of course,’ she says, after a beat. She thinks Kitty is going to ask if Oscar can sleep in her room. She has thought about this before; with Jim gone, she has tried to think ahead, tried to make these decisions in advance.
Jim would have argued that he did not care what Kitty did when she was away from home, but under his roof she should behave appropriately, and that meant separate bedrooms.
Sarah would have replied that they were both adults; Kitty was undoubtedly having sex, and to force them apart at home was to treat her like a child.
Jim would have countered that to agree without even having met this Oscar was a risk; what if he turned out to be a druggie? What if he was bossing her around, jealous, possessive? Would Sarah still be happy to have him sleeping with Kitty under those circumstances?
Sarah argues back that she trusts her daughter to make adult choices. That she needs to make her own mistakes, but that she is, has always been, a child who is wise beyond her years. She cannot see Kitty going out with someone who is jealous and possessive. And if he turns out to be like that, well, then, they will deal with it.
Imaginary Jim falls silent.
When he does this, Sarah feels a little spark of triumph at having outsmarted him, out-argued him, until she remembers that he is dead and she is putting the words in his mouth. Of course she is going to win every argument. Poor Jim, poor dead Jim, does not stand a chance in these discussions any more.
Part Three
What am I, to them? Am I an interloper, or the glue that’s holding them together?
Sometimes I look at them with their expensive houses, their shells of respectability, and wonder why I want so badly to be a part of something like that. Sophie with her designer lifestyle, Sarah with her cosy home, built around her like armour-plating.
Is this what being part of a family does to you? Is this what it means to belong?
I wouldn’t know, of course. I don’t belong anywhere.
I never really had a choice in the matter, of course, and that is always there, that stink that follows me around: being paid off. Being sold like a piece of meat.
Blood on my hands, that’s what they say, right? Good job none of them knows about that. None of them knows what they are dealing with.
They don’t understand danger because they’ve never been afraid.
I’ll show them what fear feels like.
I will make them feel it and then they will understand.
Aiden
You are in York city centre, in the bar of the Grand Hotel. It’s Monday, early afternoon, and the bar is empty apart from an elderly couple and a man in a suit talking loudly into his mobile phone. After five minutes you know everything there is to know about his portfolio, and how
fucked it will be if Henry doesn’t pull his finger out.
You check your phone for messages. It is already turned to silent but until she turns up you want to keep an eye on it, in case of problems.
You like to be early. It gives you a chance to set up everything you need, to get into the right frame of mind.
The man in the suit gets up to leave, throwing a tenner on to the table and not so much as casting a glance at the woman behind the bar. You give her a sympathetic smile. She looks at you and smiles back.
You think for a moment that she is about to come over and talk to you, but luckily she does not, because in that moment Jane Christie enters and you stand and smile and kiss her on both cheeks.
‘Would you like a drink?’ you ask.
‘Definitely. Do they do cocktails?’
You hand her the cocktail menu, which you have already looked at, trying to guess which one she would go for. You have put a theoretical fiver on the Vesper Martini.
‘I’ll have a Vesper Martini,’ she says, to the waitress who has approached your table.
Jane Christie is not her real name. You have known her for nearly four years, met her maybe a dozen times, and she has no idea that you know this about her.
You know many other things, too, but this is the one that amuses you most of all.
It’s only afterwards, when you’re heading back to your car, that you think about what it is you’re doing here. You’ve managed to push Sarah to the back of your mind for the past few hours, but the result is that now you can think of nothing but her.
Is this what you really want?
Sarah
Sophie and George live in the Old Rectory. Sarah has always thought this is odd, since the church is right at the far end of the village, half a mile away. The churchyard has sheep grazing in it. This strikes her as odd too, seeing the ragged-looking hill sheep wandering between the gravestones, munching. But the graves are all very old, and it saves the vicar having to spend church funds on employing someone to cut the grass.
Genuine rectory or not, Sarah has always liked Sophie’s house. Outside it looks like a typical early Victorian functional building, grey stone walls and a porch, a gravel driveway; inside, it has been designed and decorated up to its rafters. It has even featured in a magazine, one of those ones Sarah thinks exist to make you feel inadequate.
‘It’s not me, darling,’ Sophie has said more than once. ‘If it were up to me, I’d be happy in a messy old place with muddy kitchen floors and piles of dust everywhere.’
Sarah doubts this is true, but appreciates the sentiment nevertheless. She parks the car at the top end of the drive where she can be sure not to block in any of George’s vehicles. It’s been raining most of the weekend, and rather than easing up it seems to be getting heavier again now that she has to get out of the car.
Sophie opens the door of the conservatory, or orangery as George insists on calling it, to save Sarah walking round to the front of the house.
‘Do you need a hand?’ she calls.
‘I can manage,’ Sarah answers. ‘No point both of us getting wet.’
She is holding two cake carriers stacked on top of each other; the top one holds a chocolate cake; the bottom one is full of cupcakes. She has spent most of the morning baking on Sophie’s behalf, for the Women’s Institute sale which is taking place tomorrow. Sophie is a member of the WI; Sarah has always managed to avoid it.
‘You’re a lifesaver,’ Sophie says, taking the two plastic containers out of her hands while Sarah wipes her feet and then, to be on the safe side, takes off her trainers.
The kitchen, which is twice the size of Sarah’s and a vision of chrome and black granite, smells of fresh coffee. Sophie lifts the lid on the cake box and takes an appreciative sniff. ‘Lucky buggers,’ she says. ‘Can’t we just eat it now?’
‘Have a cupcake,’ Sarah says. ‘I did an extra one.’
In the end they share it, half each, cut down the middle with a dinner knife. They take their coffees into the snug at the front of the house where Sophie has lit a fire. Even in here, everything co-ordinates, from the silver-grey sofa to the glass coffee table with art books and unlit candles arranged on the centre of it. But at least it’s warm.
‘Where’s George?’ Sarah says.
‘Away this week,’ Sophie answers, ‘thank God.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s being grumpy as anything. No idea why. How’s the tenant?’
Sarah swallows the bite of cake she’s just taken. It’s too sugary, she thinks, wishing she’d gone easy on the icing. This is the WI, not a city bakery – they don’t do excess. So much for helping Sophie out: comments will be made.
‘I keep missing him,’ she says, truthfully. ‘He seems to go out a lot.’
‘Has he shed any light on the mystery meeting with Jim?’ Sophie adds, when Sarah doesn’t immediately reply.
There is a little pause. Even right before she opens her mouth, Sarah thinks she isn’t going to tell; but this is Sophie, her best friend, and who else can she confide in?
‘He says Jim loaned him some money. He says he’s paid it back.’
There. She’s said it. It feels as though the words are hanging in the air like bubbles; she wishes she could scoop them back in.
Sophie raises an eyebrow. ‘And that’s why they were meeting?’
‘Apparently.’
‘And you believe him?’
Sarah thinks for a second. ‘I’ve no reason not to.’
‘What did he say the money was for?’
‘Funding some projects, when he started up.’
‘Hm.’ Sophie pulls a face, drinks some of her coffee.
Sarah thinks it would be good to change the subject. ‘What’s up with George? Do you think he’s worried about something?’
Immediately she regrets phrasing her question like that. Last year, when George was confronted by Sophie about his infidelity, the only excuse he could come up with on the spur of the moment was that he was worried about the general election.
Sophie smirks at the thought of it. ‘I don’t know. I don’t even care, to be honest. He’s still at least trying to be discreet.’
‘Oh, Soph. It’s not fair.’
‘It’s entirely fair. After all, I’ve not exactly behaved impeccably either,’ she says, and gives Sarah a little wink.
Sarah frowns. Really? Sophie kissed Will, maybe more than that, but she can’t remember anything else…
‘You’ve forgotten Armando.’
Sarah laughs out loud. ‘That was different, wasn’t it? You just –’ she stops herself, lowers her voice, although there is no one here to overhear ‘– you just paid him for a massage, didn’t you?’
‘And the rest,’ Sophie purrs.
‘But it wasn’t a relationship,’ Sarah insists. ‘You weren’t seeing him… were you?’
‘No, of course not. It was a transaction. He provides a service – entertaining and diverting as it is – and then goes away again.’
Sophie visits London often, meeting friends, shopping, theatre trips, events with George. She’s down there at least twice a month, often staying over. And once or twice that included someone called Armando, who visited her in her hotel room and provided her with a therapeutic sensual massage. Stress-busting, she called it.
‘You’re not still seeing him, are you?’
‘God, no! I couldn’t get over the way he kept calling me “baby”. Not to mention that fake exotic accent. I think he was from Swindon.’
‘I’d forgotten all about him,’ Sarah says. ‘How strange.’
‘It was years ago,’ Sophie says. ‘Like going to a spa, he said. Not quite the same thing, really.’
Sophie is a veteran spa-goer, an enthusiastic partaker of facials and treatments. Sarah has tried it once or twice, usually using a voucher that had come her way at Christmas, but she has never quite got the point of it. Especially facials: being slathered in five different substances and having them w
iped off again has always felt rather odd. And the intimacy of being touched on your face, she thinks, by a complete stranger. It made her feel uncomfortable. Even back massages, nice as they are when you’ve been working hard, bending over a desk… you have to get dressed again afterwards, oily and relaxed.
She thinks of Aiden, of him stroking her back. The endless patience in the way he touched her. The care he took over it. And then the phone, buzzing in the pocket of his jeans, on the floor.
‘You’re worried about him,’ Sophie says. She sits next to Sarah and puts her arm around her shoulders. ‘Come on, my lovely. It’s fine. Don’t be upset.’
‘It’s not that,’ Sarah breathes, ‘it’s got nothing to do with me, he can do whatever he wants to. It’s just…’
‘What?’
‘It feels as though he’s lying to me about something, and I can’t work out what, or why.’
Afterwards, as she is driving slowly back up the hill, Sarah realises she didn’t tell Sophie about Will staying on Friday night. Sophie has not mentioned Will either; perhaps he has been forgotten, in which case it’s just as well she didn’t bring the subject up once again. The wind is fierce, and she can feel the strength of it as she drives out of the village and up the hill, where it is more exposed. The road is full of detritus, washed down the hill by the heavy rain last night, rivulets of water rushing down to the bottom. She slows down as the Land Rover is buffeted on the narrow lane. Where the road bends to the left a figure appears, straddling the narrow ditch, and she brakes abruptly. It is her closest neighbour, Harry Button, apparently wrestling with something heavy. He waves at her and she pulls into their driveway.
The wind snatches the car door out of her hand and flings it open. She climbs down and pushes it shut again. Walking back to Harry, she finds she has to shout to get his attention.
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