by Roxie Cooper
‘So, how are you doing? Really?’ Dad asks. ‘And don’t give me any of this “I’m doing OK” bullshit.’
‘Dad!’ I yelp, shocked. My dad does not swear. He says things like ‘BS’ and ‘Fyou’ but this kind of suits his current state. Because he’s been laid up for a few days he hasn’t shaved or been that bothered about his appearance, so he’s got dark stubble on his face, and his usually slicked-back hair is less styled, with a wilder look about it.
‘I’m not messing about,’ he says, licking the tip off his hot chocolate’s whipped cream topping.
I laugh. ‘No, you’re really not! Honestly? I’m really OK. I mean, it’s weird. I know I’ve done the right thing because I feel happier than I have done in years, but …’
I hesitate for a second. It’s the fear of saying the words out loud again.
‘Go on, love. You need to talk about this.’
‘I’m scared,’ I whisper.
‘What of?’
‘This. All of it. Being a single parent. I know I haven’t made life easy for myself but I guess I always hoped that I’d sort it out eventually. Maybe I should have tried harder with Matt, for the girls? What if I was just being selfish? I just feel like such a—’
‘Don’t you dare say it, Stephanie,’ he interrupts in his best stern-dad voice which I ignore.
‘A failure. No, I am, Dad.’
‘No, you’re not. I’m not having it. You’re human. You can’t stay in a marriage if you’re unhappy, even for the kids.’
‘But I wanted to give the girls a perfect childhood, just like Ebony and I had.’ I smile sadly. ‘I can’t give them that now.’
‘Oh Steph! Nobody is perfect! Perfectly imperfect, yes—’
‘That’s one of Mum’s phrases,’ I say and smile.
‘Well, she was the pure definition of that phrase,’ he says, looking out of the window at the snow which is falling more heavily by the second.
‘What do you mean?’
Dad sighs, putting his mug down on the windowsill.
‘You know, you remind me so much of your mother,’ he says, smiling briefly, before a veil of sadness descends over his face. ‘There’s some stuff about your mum I never told you, stuff I tried to protect you from, because some of it is painful to hear. But I think you need to hear it now.’
A tiny whirlpool of nausea starts in my stomach. It swells, slowly gathering force and starts to creep up my throat. I don’t know what Dad is about to say, but I don’t like the sound of it.
‘Go on,’ I say, puzzled.
‘Steph, your mum came to work for me initially as part of the One More Chance charity—’
‘As a member of staff, you mean?’
‘No,’ he says. ‘She was on the programme. She had an alcohol and drug problem.’
He gives me time to allow this information to sink in because he knows it’s a shock. Fuck me, it’s a shock!
‘She was one of the patients selected to come on to the programme. She had some secretarial skills so I gave her a role on one of the admin teams.’
‘No! Mum? No way did she have a booze problem, let alone a drug problem. No!’ I say again and laugh. Mum was all about eating healthily, exercise. She used to buy organic food, for God’s sake! I mean, it’s totally ridiculous. My mum?
‘Steph, I know this is a shock, but it’s true.’
How can this be true? And how could I have never known about it? Suddenly, it feels like everything I’ve ever known has been a lie.
‘But … how?’ I ask, utterly confused. ‘Why? She had it all so … so together.’
Dad laughs nervously as he reaches for his drink before looking straight back at me.
‘She wasn’t always like that. You saw the best of her, after she sorted herself out. She was a remarkable woman.’
Dad has always said this, but I always just assumed that’s because she was his wife and although she was bloody amazing, that’s how some people think of their wives, isn’t it? Those annoying couples who just love each other so much and stay together for years. It never really occurred to me that they had a life before Ebony and I came along, that they may have had to deal with issues or trauma or heartbreak.
‘Dad, just tell me everything,’ I plead. ‘I need to know.’
He nods. I need to hear it all. No editing, no sugar-coating … just the truth.
‘When your mum came to us, she was twenty and married to a guy called Neil Pike—’
‘What?’ I interrupt so loudly Dad actually jumps. ‘She was married before you two met?’
‘Yes, and he was a real nasty piece of work,’ he goes on, looking out for my reaction. He knows this is hard to hear. My gut tightens when Dad says it. The thought of my lovely mum being in an abusive relationship tears me to the core.
‘She fell out with her mum and dad over him when she was eighteen. They disapproved of the relationship because they knew what he was like. He was a well-known charmer and they didn’t want her getting involved with him. But your mum was stubborn and didn’t like being told what to do,’ he says, glancing at me down through his gold-rimmed glasses in a way which says ‘I don’t know where you get it from’. I return the look with the briefest of smiles.
‘ … so she told them she was going to marry him anyway and if they didn’t approve of the relationship they’d never see her again.’
Suddenly, it all clicks.
‘And that’s why we never met Granny Moira until Mum became ill?’ I say, my brain scrambling to put the pieces of the last thirty years together.
‘Yes,’ he replies, sadly. ‘Even after that marriage ended they never healed the feud. She felt so awful about the way she’d treated them, she felt like she couldn’t go back.’
‘But that’s terrible,’ I gasp. As a mother, I can’t comprehend severing that bond, that relationship you have with your own children over any issue. Nothing my children do would ever be enough to never want to speak to them again. Nothing.
He glances out at the quickening darkness which surrounds the house at alarming speed. ‘I made her get in touch. I didn’t want her to … go, without contacting her. Life’s too short for feuds, isn’t it?’
Just thinking this went on without our knowledge makes my head spin. How did I not know about any of it? The very thought that my poor mum was dealing with it all in her final weeks wrenches me apart. I desperately want to cuddle her – not as a child, as an adult.
‘OK,’ I go on. ‘So, back to this Neil Pike …’
‘Yes, right.’ Dad shifts on the sofa, taking another gulp of hot chocolate before continuing. ‘Life wasn’t quite the fairy tale mum had imagined for them once they got married. He turned into quite the controlling, manipulative, abusive philanderer.’
I run my hand through my hair, resting my elbow on the back of the sofa. I think I need something stronger than hot chocolate to get through this.
‘It wasn’t long before she was showing bruises and wounds all over her body, unexplained broken bones; she stopped seeing her friends and became a recluse. She was terrified of him.’
I feel physically sick. I close my eyes momentarily just to deal with this information and the whirling feeling of sadness whipping up inside my stomach. My lower lip starts to wobble.
‘Don’t get upset, love’ Dad says, patting my knee as I flap my hand in front of my eyes. I have no idea what this motion is supposed to do; it doesn’t actually stop you crying, does it?
‘No. I’m fine. C-carry on …’
‘Well, about a year before she came to work for me, she got pregnant. She was so happy about having a baby. It was the one good thing in her life she could have. She thought of it as a distraction from everything going on with Neil. You’ve got to remember there was no support for domestic violence victims back in the ’70s, Steph. It was a case of “put up or shut up”.’
I shudder, thinking of this.
‘So, what happened?’
‘One night, when she was a few mont
hs pregnant, Neil, fuelled up on booze, beat her black and blue,’ he says. It kills me to see the pain in his face recounting this.
‘What happened to the baby?’
‘She lost it,’ he says softly. ‘And she really suffered afterwards. Went to a dark place, unsurprisingly.’
I can’t quite believe what he’s telling me. The tears are streaming down my face, I can’t hold them back any longer.
‘Dad, I …’
‘Steph, honestly, this is forty years ago. Let me finish the story,’ he says.
I nod, inwardly mustering the courage to listen to whatever he has to say.
‘Neil was prosecuted for the assault and had a short spell in prison, but naturally he blamed his issues on alcohol and said he’d never do anything like that again. Your mum felt she had no way out so started drinking very heavily herself. Then, when that didn’t numb the pain, she started taking drugs,’ he says.
‘What kind of drugs?’
‘Cocaine, heroin – anything to make the pain go away, really,’ he said, matter-of-fact. ‘It was only when she accidentally overdosed and ended up in hospital nearly dead that she realised she had a choice – she could die, or she could start living.’
‘So, she ended up on the One Last Chance programme?’
‘Yes. She registered herself on it. She had some secretarial skills and was keen to improve them. I’ll never forget her first day,’ he smiles. ‘Even though she had all these issues and problems, she’d made such an effort to appear professional.’
‘Sounds like Mum,’ I say, smiling.
‘She walked up to me and said, “Are you Michael Carpenter?”. I said, “Yes, that’s me.” And she said, “Thank you for giving me a chance. Nobody has ever done that before and I won’t let you down.” And she never, ever did.’
‘What happened after that?’
‘The placement gave her the focus she needed to sort herself out. I mean, it was rocky for a while, but she got there. The most important part of it was that her self-esteem shot up and she realised she didn’t need Neil any more,’ he says, gazing at the fire. ‘She and I grew closer; I was hypnotised by her energy and determination, her humour. She was beautiful … and I fell in love with her.’
Such a bittersweet story in so many ways.
‘So, I’m guessing you got together and Neil found out?’
‘Oh, yes. Well, she told him. She was strong and brave about it. Told him outright she was leaving him for me. I was there when she did. He got angry and kicked off, obviously. He insisted he’d only divorce her on the grounds of adultery and I’d have to be named. A small price to pay to be with the woman you love.’
‘My God. I can’t believe any of this,’ I tell him, absolutely dumbfounded.
‘Of course, everyone said it wouldn’t work,’ Dad says and laughs. ‘“She’s a mess”, they said. “She’s just after your money, just wants a ticket out of her marriage”. But I knew her. It was the real deal. We got married after her divorce came through and we had you and Ebs and were blissfully happy until the day she died. She truly appreciated life and loved you both to bits, you know she did.’
‘We know. We all know,’ I reiterate.
‘I know I wasn’t the best dad after she died,’ he says, looking outside. The flakes have graduated to being the size of fifty-pence pieces. ‘I just couldn’t understand why, after everything she’d been through, she was taken away. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t her time.’
This is the first time Dad’s spoken so honestly about Mum dying. It’s raw and honest and I don’t really know what to say.
‘It just wasn’t her time,’ he repeats, this time breaking down into tears, placing his hand over his eyes.
‘Dad, please don’t,’ I plead, cuddling up to him. It feels like he’s needed this hug for years. ‘She’d be so proud of you. Of all of us.’
‘Well, so am I. I really am. I know I don’t show it a lot of the time, but you and Ebony mean the world to me and I want to see you both happy.’
‘We are! Well, Ebony is. Not sure I’m destined for happiness – one failed marriage down before the age of forty and put off for life.’
‘Matt was never really the one for you, though, was he?’ he admits.
‘I thought you loved Matt?’ I squeal.
‘I thought you loved Matt!’ he yells back. ‘I was only nice to him because I thought you loved him. Ebony hated him.’
We both laugh through the tears we’ve shed over the last few minutes. God, I’ve missed my dad.
‘Seriously, though,’ I say, ‘I just don’t think I’m meant to be like Ebony. She has it all worked out. I don’t think I’ll find anyone to be truly happy with.’ I think of Jamie when I say it and my eyes dart towards the clock. The portrait gala will be starting in fifteen minutes.
‘Steph, have you not listened to anything I’ve said?’ he says. ‘Your mum came close to ending it, so convinced she was she’d never find happiness. That was just before she found me. Yet she was the strongest, bravest woman I’ve ever known. She used to describe those early years as feeling hopeless, destined for years of unhappiness,’ he says. It dawns on me now, listening to it, that it all sounds very familiar. ‘But in later years she described it as actually standing at a crossroads. Steph, you have the power to go after what you want if you have the bravery and courage to want something enough. It won’t be easy, and it might upset people on the way, but you have to be true to yourself. You don’t need to be unhappy forever.’
‘She was special, though, wasn’t she? I’m all kinds of messed-up,’ I say, sorrowfully.
‘Do you know what I loved about your mum? Really loved? How vulnerable she was. She had flaws and she let me see them. She wouldn’t have voluntarily allowed me to in any other situation, but because of how we came to meet through the programme, I saw her – warts and all. Well, not literally warts. Your mother would never have had warts. She’d have had them frozen off or however you get rid of them.’
I giggle at the thought of it.
‘Really?’
‘I never used to believe in fate, destiny and all that … until your mum came into my life. But I do now. I think you’re sent to the people you’re meant to be with and you just know. And it doesn’t matter what you do, because you’ll always end up where you’re supposed to be,’ he says.
I gaze into the fizzing fire as he talks, thinking of Jamie. Can this mean we are meant to be together?
‘You meet your fate on the road you take to avoid it, Stephanie.’
I quickly look at Dad when he says this.
‘What?’
‘Look, I know you think I’m crazy …’
‘No, it’s not that,’ I say, looking confused. ‘Where did you hear that?’
‘Your mum always used to say it. She lived by it. Why?’
A smile expands across my face as I think back to the first time I heard this. I remember it like it was yesterday. Friday 13 October 2006 … The first conversation I ever had with Jamie Dobson as we both looked up the plaque hanging on the wall of the hotel on the evening we met.
An involuntary laugh pops out of my mouth as I feel my heart begin to race.
‘What?’ Dad says, desperate to know what the joke is.
‘Dad, can I call Ebony and ask her to come around and look after you? I’ve really got to be somewhere.’
CHAPTER 30
Jamie
Very rarely do I get nervous, but tonight I am.
Girls dressed in black walk around, handing out glasses of champagne, but I don’t take one. I’d drain it and immediately grab another. Tonight is not the night for getting drunk.
The gallery has been divided into three sections, one for each of us. It felt terrifying walking in tonight. Of course, we’ve all spent the last few days in here, each setting our own individual exhibitions up. But tonight felt different. All three finalists stood in the foyer as the press took our picture, exchanging pleasantries, wishing each other good luck, sh
aking hands. But, make no mistake about it; we’d all do whatever it takes to win this. It’s me and another guy from Cambridge, and a woman from one of the surrounding areas. We walked off into our own sections, just to spend a moment alone before people start piling in.
I stand in front of my main piece, studying it. The portrait I’d spent so long working on. It takes centre stage on the bright white wall. The dimensions of it are such that it’s the first thing you see as you enter the room; 900 mm × 600 mm. That was the specification. I found it daunting at first. That’s a whole lot of face for a portrait, but I loved it in the end. It allowed me to sink into it and work on every single feature.
I can’t take my eyes off it. It sounds arrogant, I know. But it’s the best piece of work I’ve ever done. It’s certainly the bravest: honest, raw and beautiful. I’m obviously apprehensive about people seeing it. I don’t know how people will react but I do know that I’m proud of myself. For not playing it safe, for taking a risk.
Sometimes you just have to take a chance, I guess. I know why Stephanie can’t be here, but she’s also the one person I wish could be. She’s been so supportive over the years and I know for a fact I wouldn’t even be standing here if it wasn’t for her. Whatever happens, whether I win this or not, I’ve pushed myself further than I ever thought I could and I have her to thank for that.
I watch the guests weave through the gallery, eyeing up my work which is placed on the walls. They’re mainly art critics, art lecturers, local artists. They meander around, stopping in front of each piece with a notepad in one hand, glass of champagne in the other, dissecting my work. I watch them from afar, desperately trying to look cool and casual, hiding the nerves tying my stomach in knots. I’m incapable of standing still, fidgeting with my blazer collar and continuously rubbing the back of my neck. It’s December, but I’m feeling uncomfortably hot as I unbutton my blazer and adjust my polo neck to try and feel some fresh air.