by Beth Morrey
“She said you called her to talk about something, but then decided against it.”
She hesitated. “Because she’s too nice. And she’s never wanted children.”
“Wouldn’t that have been helpful?”
She shook her head, and we walked on in silence for a while. Then, as we approached the café: “I so wanted Otis to have a brother or a sister. I’m an only child and I never wanted that for him. But when it came to it, I couldn’t do it all again on my own. I just couldn’t.”
I thought of that day when Ali was sick on the rug, both children screaming and crying, the burning in my ankle, suffused with rage and frustration, the tightly wound impotence of the moment when everything became too much. When it came to children, two was more than two; with just one parent, I could see why it was an infinite and unthinkable number.
“Did you tell . . . the father?”
“Jack? No. He’s in New York; it was never on the cards. It should never have happened, it was a stupid, stupid mistake.” She took a deep breath and retied her ponytail. “Shall we get that coffee?”
We went into the café, as warm and welcoming as ever, and sat at our usual table. Bobby, excited to be in a new place, immediately started sniffing, her nose on a puppet string around the cake shelf. I pulled her back, tucking her under my seat, where she lay down with a disapproving sigh, eyebrows twitching.
“Was Leo a good father?” Angela bit into a sugar cube, cupping her palm underneath to catch the falling grains.
I paused, stirring my coffee. “No, I suppose in many ways, he wasn’t.” A tingle of shock and relief at the admission. “He was great fun, knew how to play with them, which I was never very good at. But there was a limit to his patience. He didn’t want to get involved in the details, and if it ever got boring, or messy, then he would just retreat to his study, or go off to a conference. And I would be left to clear up and carry on. But then, I’m not sure I was a very good mother either. The most I can say is that I was always there.”
Angela’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. “Trust me, sticking around is as good as it gets.”
“You’re still young, you could easily have more children. Otis doesn’t have to be an only child, and if he is, well, there are worse things.”
“I’m thirty-seven. Sean and I were together, on and off, for thirteen years. I don’t think I can be bothered to get to know someone all over again. Do that thing of pretending I’m not insane, or that I don’t eat like a fucking pig.”
I thought of how carefully I’d played Leo, declining invitations, all that holding back and furtive application of makeup. I felt quite glad that I was far too old to go through all that again.
“Maybe next time you could, oh, I don’t know, just be yourself?” I suggested.
She stared at me for a second and then we both giggled.
“The very idea!” she gasped. “Hell’s bells!”
When I stopped laughing I felt washed out, as if I’d had a good cry. “It’ll be OK,” I said. “You’ll be OK.”
We finished our coffee and then Angela felt tired, so we paid the bill and left, Hanna’s effusive boss, Ahmed, taking the opportunity to pump our hands, give Bobby a pat and assure us that dogs were welcome in his establishment.
“So you know,” said Angela grimly as we wandered toward home. “We’re going to have to talk about Brexit sooner or later.” She raised her eyebrows and dug her hands deeper into her jacket as she stared me down.
I stalled on the pavement, Bobby tugging impatiently at her lead. “I wish I’d never told you,” I sighed eventually. “I know how you feel about it. But, on the day of the referendum, I just wanted things to change. It had nothing to do with the vote, not really. It was more like . . . firing a shot in the air to startle the pigeons.”
Angela huffed. “More like shooting yourself in the foot. I thought you were better than that. You’re an educated woman. You lived through the war, for Chrissake.”
“I know. I feel terrible about it. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t say sorry to me; say sorry to the country.” At that point I sensed a tirade coming and realized Angela must be feeling a little better. “This poor country, which is going to go to the dogs. Sorry, Bobby.” She patted her head. “I’m all right, I’ve got an Irish passport, but the rest of you are doomed, I tell you. Doomed to sit on the sidelines as some second-rate, two-bit lost empire. Sovereignty, my arse. It makes my blood boil—”
Then Angela’s step suddenly faltered and her breath caught in her throat. Following the direction of her gaze, I saw a tall, solidly built man standing with one hand on her front gate, looking at us.
“It’s Adrian,” she breathed. “Fix’s husband.”
We approached warily, Bobby lagging behind to sniff. When we reached him, Angela nodded stiffly.
One hand rested lightly on the wrought iron railing, but there was a kind of suppressed tension in his body, like a cat before it pounced. Adrian’s eyes passed across me, barely registering my presence, before resting on Angela with an inscrutable expression. Even in the strong winter sunlight, I couldn’t see the color of them; they seemed to be all pupil, all black. Hunter eyes. He didn’t say anything, just kept looking at her.
“Adrian. I didn’t expect to see you.” Her hands were shaking slightly, so she thrust them in her pockets and stood very straight.
He breathed in slowly, nostrils flaring. “I came to see Felicity.”
“She’s not here. What made you think she was?”
“I’ve been everywhere else.” The hand holding the railing tightened slightly.
“I don’t know where she is,” said Angela. “But I’m sure she’ll be in touch if she wants you to know.”
Adrian chuckled. “Well, now, you see, I don’t think she does want me to know. But I do . . . very much . . . want to know.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t help you.” Angela was frightened; I could see the tension in her trembling frame. I thought of what she’d just gone through, how vulnerable she was, and was horribly afraid for her.
“Oh, Angela, I’m sure you could help me, if you really wanted to.” Now both of his fists were gripping the railings, knuckles glowing white against the black.
A fury began to build in me. How dare this man turn up at Angela’s home and intimidate her, like some villain in a soap opera, with his silly insinuation, playing the hard man. I might be afraid for Angela, but all of a sudden my rage boiled over, overriding everything else. And for once—unlike that terrible day, shouting at Melanie in my kitchen—I was going to get angry with the right person, at the right time, in the right way.
“Oh, go away,” I said, stepping forward and putting my own hand on the gate. He blinked, as if seeing me for the first time, and watched in astonishment as I pushed past him. He wasn’t that tall.
“Not until I’ve seen my wife,” he said, turning back to Angela.
“Well, she’s not here, so you can bloody well leave us alone.” I pivoted on the pathway, one step up so I could look down on him from a distance. He was all those self-serving, empowered men that I’d grown so sick of: the feckless Sean; the burglars who raided my home; Angela’s tip-stealing date; Percy the Lunger all those years ago; he was even, in some dim recess of my mind, Leo, who’d retreated when he should have stepped up.
“I can’t stand men like you,” I spat. “Turning up like you own the place, like we should all get in line to give you what you want. I’ll tell you what I want. I want you to get the hell away from Angela’s house, this instant, or I’m going to call the police.”
“And what are you going to tell them?” Adrian replied softly, doing the proper menacing thing now, fists gripping the gate.
I put my head to one side. “I’ll tell them that you did this.” I grabbed the front of my blouse and ripped it downward, pearl buttons popping and scattering down the
path. Then I started to twist the skin around my collarbone, hard. “Old ladies bruise so easily,” I murmured, enjoying his shocked expression.
He stepped back, perplexed. “You’re insane.”
“Yes.” I grinned like an old witch. “And I can’t be bothered to hide it.” I bent and rubbed some soil across my brow. “Oh dear, I fell over. I think I might have wrenched my arm.”
“I just want to see my wife.” He turned back again to Angela, almost pleadingly.
“And it all got a bit out of hand, didn’t it?” I replied, pulling strands of my hair out of its plait, mussing it up.
“You stupid bitch,” he hissed, turning back to me. But as he grabbed the gate, there was a snarl and Bobby appeared between us, teeth bared, straining at her lead. Adrian fell back; recognition flashed across his face and he looked back at me, flushed with rage and confusion.
“That’s my dog,” he spluttered, pointing.
“No.” I shook my head. “She was Felicity’s dog, and now she’s my dog. So get the FUCK out of here before I set her on you.”
With Bobby still growling, I held out my hand to Angela, who stumbled up the path toward me, while Adrian watched, unsure what to do next.
“Ten seconds to make your mind up, sunshine, then I call the police,” I said, getting out my phone. I started my countdown, shaking with anger and euphoria and also uncertainty, as I really wasn’t sure what I would do if he didn’t leave before I got to zero. But at six, he slammed the gate closed with both hands and stepped back.
“Fine, I’m going,” he said. “No need to get your knickers in a twist.” He turned and marched back down the road, shoulders hunched in his jacket, and we both watched him go, making sure. Cheap shoes with built-up heels; Achilles’ heels, vile little man. I turned back to Angela and put my arm around her.
“It’s going to be OK,” I said, squeezing. “You’ll be OK.”
She looked up, torn between tears and laughter. “Fucking hell,” she panted, lowering herself onto the steps of the porch. “Fucking hell, Missy. You were . . . amazing.”
“It was nothing.” Feeling suddenly very wobbly myself, I sank and sat with her, looking down at my ripped blouse and wondering if I could sew the pearls back on if we found them. Bobby stood in front of us, wagging her tail, and we gave her a big fuss—she had been magnificent. We sat for a while, crying and laughing together, while Bobby licked our faces and nudged us for treats, then Angela said I should stop indecently exposing myself to all of Stoke Newington, so we stood up, brushed ourselves off, and went inside to look for wine and Bonios.
Later on, after Angela had fetched Otis from school, he was back in his own bed, and we were eating pizza and watching some pleasingly frothy drama, she looked shiftily at me over her glass.
“Earlier I said I didn’t talk to Sylvie because she was too nice,” she said. “I felt bad about that, because it implied you weren’t.”
“I’m not,” I agreed. “Not nice like Sylvie.”
“No.” She nodded. “But sometimes you need more than nice. And that’s what you were today. And last night.”
“That’s one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me.”
She laughed. “Don’t get used to it. But I’ll tell you one thing. That vote of yours—you can strike it off the record. We’re good.”
I grinned at her, feeling a weight lifting. “Thanks.” Then more seriously: “What will you do if he comes back?”
She didn’t miss a beat. “Punch myself in the face and call the police.”
“Good girl.” We were just pouring out the last of the bottle when there was a flump from the bedroom followed by the patter of tiny footsteps.
“Mummmeeee,” said Otis, rubbing his eyes. The front of his pajamas were soaked through.
“Sweet Jesus,” said Angela. “I forgot to take him for a wee before bed.”
“Clear up and carry on,” I said, knocking back my glass. I would have helped her, but I wasn’t that nice. So instead I thought about Adrian and how satisfying it had been to take the little shit down a peg. When the bedroom had been silent for a while and Angela hadn’t come out again, I went in and found them both asleep, Otis curled in his mother’s arms in his little single bed. I tucked the duvet around them and tiptoed out again, clicking my fingers to Bobby.
We clattered down the stairs together, her claws scrambling for purchase, and she turned to grin at me halfway down, pink tongue lolling. Nothing was insurmountable when she was there.
“I think you’re more than nice,” I said. And together we slipped out of the flat, down the flights of stairs and back along the road, her tail waving alongside me as we made our way home.
Chapter 38
We spent a week or so on edge, wondering if Adrian would come back, but then Angela got a message from Felicity saying she had decided to press charges. At the same time, I received an email from the police officer who visited after my burglary the year before saying the crime had been investigated as far as reasonably possible and the investigation was closed pending further investigative opportunities becoming available. Once again, I was passionately grateful for Bobby’s presence and hoped Fix fared better with her own case.
A few days later, I found a bunch of flowers on my doorstep, with a note attached from Sylvie. You ARE as nice as me, it read. Purple gladioli, from the Latin gladius, meaning “sword.” I enjoyed Sylvie’s penchant for plant symbolism; it was like our own secret language, and I hoped it meant Angela had told her the whole story, not just part of it.
March came, bringing with it the burgeoning spring, and once again the park burst back to life, the cold mud drying out, buds blossoming, the green gradually edging back in. Our walks became warmer and more leisurely, no longer huddled against the chill. There were more people to talk to as we ambled round, not to mention marathon runners to dodge, as they all upped their training. Now I was a bona fide (or should that be Fido?) dog lover, I was perfectly happy to snap back when they barged through us, tutting as they dodged the pack, or shouting when a cyclist flashed by too fast. We dog walkers were the self-appointed police of the park, the benevolent bobbies who patrolled and informed the wardens when there was an injured swan in the lake, or a wasps’ nest swarming in the fallen logs.
I loved those mornings, gathering at the picnic table for a coffee and a chat, as the dogs frolicked and romped. Phillip and Dexter had enrolled themselves in a training class in Finsbury Park and Dexter had run off with the trainer’s clipboard; Maddie and Simon had called in a sleep consultant to help them with Timothy—they’d spent £250 and he’d slept through three times before reverting back to his usual screaming, but they felt the money had been worth it for a few blissful nights. Denzil had tried to buy a light switch at a Martin Creed exhibition, before discovering that it was, in fact, just a light switch: “Saved me ten grand.” Sylvie had redesigned a housewife’s living room with artificial turf instead of carpet: “She said, ‘Bring the outside in,’ silly mare.” We caroled under the tentative spring sunshine, amidst swaying hindquarters, and then Bobby and I would saunter home, waved off by hands and tails.
One Saturday after a companionable stroll, Sylvie suggested a trip to Upper Street, and after dropping the dogs off at my house, we caught a bus and made our way along the bustling high street. To my surprise, Sylvie took my arm and marched me into a very smart-looking hair salon. When we arrived in the reception, the lady behind the counter smiled and handed me a glass of champagne. “Good morning, Mrs. Carmichael.” I turned back to Sylvie, bewildered, and she winked. “This is my treat.”
I was led to a twirling leather chair, where a very hip young man with several piercings introduced himself as Barnaby. “What are we having today, darling?” he asked, sitting me down and spinning me round to face myself in the mirror.
“I don’t know.” I gazed at my puzzled reflection.
“I do though,” said Sylvie, lurking behind me with her own glass of champagne. “Cut it all off.”
Ignoring my protests, Barnaby rubbed his hands together and stuck a comb behind his studded ear. Sylvie put her hands on my shoulders and looked at me in the mirror. “Trust me,” she said. “It’s time for a change.”
So I fell silent and let Barnaby put a gown over my arms. He and Sylvie had a brisk discussion about blunt cuts and waves and lowlights, then she left us to it, waving as the lady from reception brought me a brownie on a tiny white plate. Barnaby swung me this way and that, releasing my hair so it fell around my shoulders, putting his fingers to my temples and looking into the mirror intently. Then he swept me off to the basin, and feeling the warmth of the shower water trickle onto my scalp, I drifted off.
The whole experience was intensely soothing. Barnaby didn’t talk because he was busy, pulling me one way and then the other, chopping and pinning, folding little foils, and such was his concentration that I found myself unwinding like my plait. Luó; Gr λύω—“to loose, untie, release.” It was more than two hours later that I suddenly came to, hearing the sound of clapping. I blinked and saw Angela and Otis in the mirror, both grinning.
“Well,” said Angela. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
Confused by their sudden appearance, I was nonetheless entranced. My hair had been chopped into a short, blunt bob, the natural wave enhanced to a slight curl. He hadn’t tried to hide the gray, just added a few darker strands to even it out a little. It made my eyes look greener. I looked distinguished—chic, even. Behind the sags and wrinkles, I looked like my mother, and Jette, and Melanie, and somehow more like me than I’d ever felt.
I smiled at Angela in the mirror. “Not bad for an old crone.”
“Not bad?” she replied. “I’ve said it before: Sylvie’s a genius! Now, follow me.”
Then Angela took me shopping, to a little boutique I’d never been to before, would never have dared go in. She marched about, grabbing items off the rails, barking instructions to the sales assistant who had started off haughty. We closeted ourselves in the dressing room, while Otis played with his cars just outside, and Angela handed me a pair of black trousers and an olive-hued chiffon blouse. She went off to look for accessories while I put them on.