Next are a pair of black kitten heels. They’re not my taste but, trying them on, they are a comfortable fit and I can just about walk in them. They add a feminine touch to the outfit. The adjacent box contains a pair of espadrilles and the one after that some white, strappy sandals.
If the shoes in the final box are unsuitable then the kitten heels it is de facto. I’ll practice walking in them in the house to wear them in before the interview.
The last box is heavier than the others. Walking boots, perhaps? Yet when did my mother ever go on a ramble? I take the lid off and discover that it doesn’t contain shoes at all but what looks like a jumble of notebooks and letters.
‘Put that back,’ says Mother abruptly, pushing herself up from the edge of the bed where she was sitting to near standing position. ‘They’re private.’
I’m taken aback by her sudden change in mood. Of course, telling me not to look in the box piques my curiosity and encourages me to want to do so even more.
I put the lid back on but not before seeing the name Gemma stand out on one of the letters. ‘What is in there?’
‘I told you, it’s private.’
I feel a surge of anger rise from the pit of my stomach.
‘Don’t you think that if there’s something in there about this family I have a right to know?’ I fold my arms in a defensive position.
Her mouth opens wide like a goldfish’s before saying, ‘Once again, that box is private. My business. Now take off the clothes and I’ll go in your room and sew the alterations. Go downstairs please.’
What am I, six years old?
I presume she tells me to go downstairs to stop me snooping when she’s out of the room sewing. This time I decide not to pick an argument and sit on my anger until I can push it down firmly and lock it away. I change and put the shoeboxes back in the wardrobe where I found them on top of the ‘private’ box.
Downstairs I switch on the television. It’s a wildlife documentary, but I barely watch it or listen to it. What’s in the box? I vow to sneak in and find out in a couple of days’ time when Mother is out at Aunty Lena’s and has hopefully forgotten about our exchange of words. I’m fed up of secrets, there have been too many in my life. What is it that Mother is keeping from me? What will those letters tell me about Gemma?
On the television the roar of a female lion grabs my attention. She is killing her cubs, pouncing on them and tearing at their throats until they bleed profusely and stop struggling. The pictures are accompanied by a voiceover that remarks: ‘Lionesses killing their cubs isn’t that uncommon. Some mothers just aren’t good at being mothers.’
13
Days pass and the chance to go into Mother’s room to look in the box eludes me. Apart from for a GP appointment, which I accompany her to, Mother does not leave the house. Her bedroom door remains firmly closed. I make a mental note to speak to Aunty Lena alone when we go there on Sunday for dinner and encourage her to ask Mother to go out with her somewhere. Anywhere will do, just as long as I can get the house to myself. I won’t invite Priti to come too as two of us snooping will make the whole situation more obvious.
Friday comes and it’s the day for my evening date with Gareth. The day passes by in my usual routine and I leave a stew in the microwave for Mother to heat up and eat when I’m out. I then luxuriate in a hot bath and think about my date, Monday’s interview and meeting with Ian.
I’m towelling myself down and applying body moisturiser in my bedroom when my mobile rings. I look at the screen. It’s Shaun. This time I decide to answer; I’ll have to speak to him sometime. I can’t avoid him forever. There may be post at his house or something else practical to sort out.
I realise that there no longer is a churning sensation in my stomach when I think of him, nor am I scared I’ll break down on the phone: cry, shout, or anything else that would make him believe he still has power over me. I take a deep breath, smile, then press the green button.
‘Hello.’
‘Annie? Finally I’ve got hold of you. It’s Shaun.’
‘Yes I know, your number came up on my phone.’ My voice has an unnatural, happy, pleasant lilt, devoid of my usual edge but not quite of my trademark sarcasm.
‘Are you OK? Have you got somewhere to live?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ He doesn’t need to know the details. He’s forfeited the right.
‘Where are you? Are you still in Leeds?’
‘No.’ Again I’m playing my cards close to my flattish chest.
‘Look, I was angry. I shouldn’t have kicked you out. I thought I’d see you again but you left when I was at work. I’m sorry…’
There’s a pause where he breaks off with a sigh and I say nothing.
He speaks again. ‘I was so angry with you that you’d not trusted me. You made the decision to have an abortion all by yourself without even talking to me. It was my baby too. You didn’t give me the chance to support you… I was furious. I’m still furious. But I shouldn’t have told you to leave. Did you think I’d stop you getting rid of the baby?’
Right at this point my good intentions fly out of the window. Good cop takes a tea break and bad cop returns firmly to the fore.
‘Angry? You’re angry, are you? Enough to run straight into some blonde slapper’s arms?’
‘What?’
‘You were seen down the pub. The abortion was just an excuse wasn’t it to get rid of me and move on to the next woman you already had lined up. Stop playing the victim card, Shaun.’
‘It’s you who is waving the victim card, Annie. Twisting things so you come out of all this with a halo. You always did play the “poor me” act.’
His Irish accent is harder to decipher now as it always is when he is vexed.
‘I haven’t moved on to someone else. I met up with Soph, my ex, one night at the pub if that’s what you’re referring to. Mark was there, I guess he ran and told Priti. Yes, I fecking flirted. I was angry with you. We had a laugh, a hug, but that was it. So don’t accuse me of something I haven’t done.’
‘Oh.’ That truly blew the wind out of my accusation.
‘The world is not against you, Annie. Why do you think you’re so badly done to all the time? You made the decision to have the abortion without talking to me about it, without trusting me to support you. Couples are supposed to talk to each other, but no, you just went out on your own and completely ignored my existence.’
‘I couldn’t be a mum, I just couldn’t be. I don’t know how to play happy families. That was my decision, mine alone.’
‘Come on, Annie, surely you can at least see why I’m angry.’ His voice is lowering now. He pauses then carries on.
‘Honestly, I didn’t call for an argument. I just want to know how you are, if you’re alright.’
‘I’m doing OK, thanks.’
‘Does it, does it still hurt? Was it painful?’
‘It wasn’t pleasant but I’m fine now. Look, I’ve got to go. Is there post or anything for me at yours I need to collect?’
‘Just a bit. I’ve kept it for you.’
‘I’ll ask Priti to pick it up.’
‘Is that all you’ve got to say? Asking about your post? Jesus. I’ll put it by for Priti. You take care of yourself, Annie. I’m sorry things ended this way but they’d been going downhill before you did what you did.’
He obviously doesn’t want me back. No romantic hearts and flowers endings here. No midnight dashes or declarations of undying love. This is Yorkshire, after all.
‘Bye Shaun.’
Just before I disconnect the call I add: ‘I’m sorry too.’
I hang up then curl into a ball and cry, cursing the world and swearing these will be the last tears I’ll shed over him, the foetus, the loss of two years together, me wrongly thinking he’d moved straight on to another woman.
Afterwards, when my tears are all used up and I manage to compose myself, I plaster extra foundation on my face to cover the red eyes and blotches. I consider can
celling my date with Gareth but Priti’s drunken words, that to get over a man you have to get under another, haunt me. I’m not going to sleep with him but a spot of flirting will be good for my ego.
I’d misjudged Shaun. Hard as it was, I had to admit to myself I did deserve some blame. I realise he was right when he said I’d not trusted him enough to tell him I was pregnant. I hadn’t. My focus had been on me only. Perhaps if I had really loved Shaun then I would have discussed it with him first.
I tell myself I won’t make the same mistake with Gareth, or whoever my next boyfriend will be. Even if I’m taking the contraceptive pill I’ll insist on using condoms to make double sure.
I pull on my best skinny jeans and, taking a leaf out of Priti’s book, a brightly-coloured tunic. With a dash of lipstick I’m ready to go.
Downstairs, Mother is reading a book on the sofa whilst the television chatters away in the background. How can she concentrate with both competing for her attention? She looks up to see me when I walk into the lounge and smiles. ‘You look lovely. I hope you have a good time tonight.’
‘I will do. Have you got everything you need? There’s a stew in the microwave.’
‘Thank you. I’ll be fine. Take care of yourself coming home. Don’t walk back – make sure you get a taxi. Be safe.’ She struggles to her feet using her narrow arm and vein-lined hand to push herself up from the sofa and picks up her handbag that’s lying beside it. Out of her purse she gives me £20. I hesitate in taking it but then realise I haven’t got the cash myself to pay for a cab home. Despite my usual going Dutch principles I’m banking on Gareth paying for me tonight. I don’t want the embarrassment of my credit card being declined. I had considered driving but parking would cost a lot anyway and on a first date I could really do with a drink.
I thank her, and she appears pleased that I’ve accepted the money. ‘I promise I’ll get a taxi home. You’ll probably be in bed by the time I get back. See you tomorrow.’
With that I pick up my denim jacket and leave the house, shutting the front door with a firm thump. Fortunately, I don’t have to pass Reg’s house to walk to the bus stop as it’s in the opposite direction.
The bus arrives late but it’s not too busy: most workers have made it home by now and the party-goers have yet to travel into town. I get on and sit next to a careworn-looking older woman with three plastic bags full of shopping at her feet. Some teenagers at the back of the bus are laughing and making fun of each other, causing the lady next to me to press herself closer to the window to distance herself from their bawdy chatter.
Twenty slow minutes later, after five stops, it’s finally time for me to get off. I ring the bell and dash to the door. As soon as I do, the woman puts her plastic bags on the seat I’ve just vacated as to form a physical barrier between her and the teenagers.
I checked the way before I came out and it’s only a short walk to Alexandro’s. I’m enjoying the slight nip in the air and looking at the turning shades of brown on the trees’ leaves, the oaks having been planted decades ago to bring a smidgen of the countryside into this urban area.
It’s getting busier now and harder to keep my fast walking pace going. The volume of people moving at different speeds makes going quickly more difficult. In particular, in front of me there’s a blonde woman wearing a yellow rain mac taking up most of the width of the pavement. She’s pushing a buggy and pulling along another child, who looks about seven, on her right side. Impatience at her blocking my way and then déjà vu hit me. She looks familiar. There’s something about her. A car beeps its horn and she looks behind her to see where the noise is coming from. When doing so, her blonde, streaked locks brush against her chin. Her hair is cut in a neat bob. What is it about her hair that’s prompting me to try and remember something? After an oncoming car has gone past I step onto the road to overtake her and catch a glimpse of her heavily-made up face. The answer pings into my head and I gasp as it does. Thankfully she doesn’t see as I’m now in front of her and am regaining my usual pace.
She looks like Olivia, the girl with the plaits from school. Suddenly I can’t wait to get away. Recognising her has unnerved me and is an unwanted link to my past. To her I’m still the bully who pulled a clump of her hair out. She doesn’t know the new me and I intend to keep it that way.
At the speed I’m walking it doesn’t take me long to reach Alexandro’s. It’s on a street corner and has a huge glass window beckoning passing customers to go in. By the door there’s a crate full of vegetables on display and I wonder whether they are real or plastic. Plastic, I assume – in this neighbourhood at night anything fresh would soon be nicked.
Through the window I can see Gareth sitting at a table for two at the side of the restaurant. He has swapped his previous jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt combo for brown chinos and a white shirt that’s unbuttoned at the collar. He’s made an effort. In front of the him on the table are a bottle of Italian beer and a large glass of white. For me, I hope.
He looks up as I approach and grins in my direction, standing up and waving at the seat opposite him to tell me to sit down. I kiss him on the cheek awkwardly, then sit down, placing my jacket on the back of the seat and my handbag under the table. I’m pleased to see him again.
There’s a small sheen of sweat on his forehead. I think he’s nervous. Funnily enough that makes me feel a bit nervous too. I force myself to put this evening’s phone call with Shaun out of my mind and concentrate on the here, now and the man who is raising his bottle in my direction.
‘Cheers!’ I say, clinking my wine glass against his bottle. I take a quick sip. It’s dry yet citrusy and very palatable. Gareth certainly hadn’t chosen the cheapest on the wine list.
‘It’s good to see you again. Thank you for coming.’ he says with a slight falter to his voice. He really is nervous. Perhaps he hasn’t dated much since his divorce.
‘Pleasure. Looks like you’ve made a good choice of restaurant. Lovely wine by the way.’ We make some small talk about how our days were – of course I didn’t tell him about the conversation with Shaun – though I do tell him about the healthcare assistant bank interview on Monday. He responds with a tale about the shenanigans in the store today, when a security guard chased a shoplifter around the aisles, and congratulates me on my good news.
‘It’s just an entry-level job but it could lead on to something better. They provide training. If I don’t get it then I’ll need to find something else quickly.’
‘We’re recruiting soon for extra seasonal staff over the festive period. I could put a word in if you want me to.’
‘Thanks, that’s good to know. We’ll see how it goes.’
The waiter comes over with the menus and hovers whilst we decide what to eat. Gareth opts for a starter so I do too, followed by a pizza. My first choice would have been spaghetti carbonara but on a first date I didn’t want to be sucking up spaghetti and dripping sauce down my chin like a toddler.
We exchange more small talk and I find myself relaxing, probably helped by the glass of wine I’ve drunk. He tells me he plays football at the weekends and enjoys cooking Indian food. He was the chef in the house when he was married and since they split he was determined not to slip into a lazy habit of reaching for microwavable ready meals for one. ‘I might sell them but God knows I wouldn’t eat that slop,’ he jokes.
Starter over and another round of drinks ordered I move the conversation on to our discussion at the pub. ‘Thanks for telling me about Toby Smith. I rang the police to tell them but they said I need a solicitor’s request in writing for them to investigate further.’
‘Are you going to do it?’ he asks, balancing a dripping piece of lasagne on his fork.
‘Yes. I’ve got an appointment on Monday, actually, after my interview. It’s quite a coincidence. I did an internet search for solicitors and found that a guy I was friends with at school has his own practice not far away.’
Was it a trick of the light or did I see a slight glower on
his face when I mentioned another man?
‘He set it up with his wife a few years back,’ I add.
The glower disappears.
‘Great. If I can help with anything just ask. I’m sorry I can’t remember anything more about Gemma.’
‘That’s OK. I did track down the Mike fella you mentioned, though. He’s an accountant now and couldn’t wait to get me off the phone when I mentioned my sister. Very odd.’
Gareth furrowed his brow. ‘That’s weird. I had the impression they were good friends.’
‘He denied it. Said he hardly knew her.’
‘Perhaps I was wrong.’
‘Or perhaps he’s lying,’ I counteract.
We carry on eating in amiable silence. When we’ve both finished he pipes up, ‘So Annie Towcester, are you good at making breakfast?’
That surprises me. Is he hinting or expecting payment in kind for the meal? He hadn’t struck me as that sort of bloke.
Not sure how to take his comment, I laugh. ‘I’ve got to get back tonight to check on my mother. Do you remember I told you she’s being treated for cancer?’
Gareth looks embarrassed. ‘Oh God, yes, of course. I’m sorry to hear about your mother. I wasn’t suggesting, I mean it would be lovely to spend the night with you, but I wasn’t implying, it’s a bit soon, I was trying to make a joke about your surname. Toaster.’
It all becomes clear. ‘Ah, right.’ I flash him a cheeky smile. ‘I’ll believe you. Thousands wouldn’t. It’s Towcester by the way.’ I pronounce the syllable tow as in ow with a double-you followed by sester. ‘Nothing to do with kitchen appliances.’
He chuckles and raises both his palms in front of me. ‘You’ve caught me out. My dreadful sense of humour.’
‘I’ve heard much worse before. And had people breaking into the song “Tomorrow” when they hear my first name. Please don’t inflict that on me.’
We both laugh.
The evening carries on with dessert and another round of drinks. As the cliché goes, the time really does pass quickly. I’m enjoying myself immensely and can’t remember the last time I had this good a first date. The longer I spend in his company, the more attractive I find him.
My Perfect Sister Page 9