by Lucy Lawrie
‘He told me that I was The One, but I told him that nothing could happen between us. I’m just telling you.’
‘How bloody juvenile,’ he muttered under his breath, sliding the container into the microwave and throwing the fork into the sink with a clang.
‘Sorry?’
‘Jesus Christ, Cassie. It’s just one drama after another with you, isn’t it. It’s like Sweet Valley High around here. High School Bloody Musical. This is a very simple scenario – he just wants to get his leg over. Now just grow up, would you? Get over it. I’m not discussing this again.’ He set the microwave, jabbing the buttons with a vicious finger, then sat down at the table and snapped Dita’s Evening News open in front of him.
I’d been prepared for accusations, maybe even shouting or tears. But this impatient dismissal was worse. I stood up, my legs shaking, suddenly unable to be in the same room as Jonathan. I’d go upstairs, I thought, and phone Helen. I’d tell her about the vigil, and this whole awful mess, and listen, unflinchingly, to her no-nonsense advice on how to climb out of it.
But as I walked up the stairs I felt for a moment a terrifying reversal that made my pulse race. I didn’t have to confess my sins to Helen, or grovel to Jonathan. I could just walk away from all this. I could call Malkie right now, and tell him I’d made a mistake. I could be round at his flat in half an hour. I imagined his smile as he opened the door; how I would drop my bag on the floor and walk into his arms. I imagined the weight of him on top of me; how I would pull my knees around his hips; how it would feel when he pushed inside me.
My phone sat tauntingly on the bedside table. It would be so easy.
*
Something woke me. For several moments I lay, disorientated, not understanding where I was. I was at Malkie’s flat, wasn’t I? Lying with him in his bed, our bodies flung out across crumpled sheets. My pulse thudded with the finality of what I’d done. But slowly, grainy dark shapes resolved themselves into the surroundings of my own bedroom. I hadn’t made the call. Relief flowed through me, cold and sharp.
But there was a noise in the house. Something. I got to my feet and went out into the hall. There it was again – deep gasps of breath. I thought at first that it was laughing. But no . . . when it came again, it was a high, keening sound, deepening to a throaty wail at the end of each cry. It wasn’t Sophie, I knew that much. It sounded barely human.
But it seemed to be coming from her room.
The stalker had got in.
Before I’d had time to think, my legs had covered the few yards to the nursery. It was dark in there, with just a faint greyness creeping in at the edges of the blackout blind.
A figure was standing over her cot. Bending over her. Crying.
I stood for a second, torn between running back to our room to wake Jonathan and rushing at this shape, getting it away from my daughter’s cot, tearing it apart with my bare hands if necessary. Until it leaned right into the cot and spoke to her, and then I knew.
‘I loved you. I loved you.’
It was Jonathan.
And he was talking in the past tense.
I snapped on the light. The second it took me to get to her cot stretched and unwound, long enough to contain the possibilities of a thousand wretched outcomes.
She was rolled up in a little ball, face down in the cot.
‘Sophie!’ I put my hands around her ribcage and lifted her off the mattress. Her arms and legs flailed.
I pulled her close and she wrapped herself around me, soft pink gingham warm against my skin. I swung round to face Jonathan.
‘What the hell—’
But he was just standing there, standing over the cot with staring, glassy eyes, his face wet with tears.
‘Jonathan . . . are you . . . asleep?’
I put my hand on his shoulder, gave it a little shake. He didn’t respond.
Perhaps Dita would know what to do. I went to wake her.
‘Ach . . . we’ll soon sort him out. Don’t worry.’ She swung her legs out of bed and shrugged on her dressing gown.
‘But Dita, I thought . . . I though he’d . . .’
She went up to Jonathan, put her arm around his shoulders and led him firmly out of the nursery and back to our bedroom, where she got him into bed. She stroked his hair back from his forehead, then turned to me, motioning me to go out into the hall.
‘Cassie, relax. He’s sleepwalking – I’ve seen it before. It’ll pass. He went through a phase of it in his teens.’
She seemed completely unfazed, as though we were talking about an outbreak of athlete’s foot or pimples.
‘But Dita, I thought . . . he was talking like Sophie was . . . dead, or something.’
‘It can look frightening, I know. But he won’t remember anything about it in the morning.’
‘He’s been having nightmares about his father. Do you think this is connected with those in some way?’
She shrugged. ‘Grief is a funny thing. It resurfaces when you’re not expecting it. That’s just the way it works. This sort of thing is bound to come up from time to time . . . nightmares and so on. It was a shock when he went. None of us were prepared.’
‘Is there something about his father that . . .’ – that neither of you are telling me – ‘ . . . that might be bothering him, in particular? Is there anything that I should know? If this is affecting his relationship with Sophie, then . . .’
‘Cassie, please. It might look alarming but there is really nothing to worry about. I’ve seen him sleepwalk many times before, and he’s never come to any harm, or hurt anyone else. We both know he’s not an aggressive person when he’s awake, so why would he be when he’s asleep? No. He was just a little bit sad, that’s all. I’ll stay up for a while and listen out, make sure he’s settled down. Go and put Sophie back to bed, and get some sleep yourself. We’ll talk about it again in the morning. But I’m sure there’s no need to worry.’
I put Sophie back in her cot, but I didn’t go back to bed. I grabbed a blanket from her wardrobe, and curled up on the floor beside the cot.
21
The Copper Kettle was a reassuringly traditional coffee shop, with a brown painted exterior and steamed-up windows. I arrived a few minutes early and sat at a wobbly wooden table watching shoppers milling past on the pavement outside, pink-cheeked and well wrapped up against the cold.
They didn’t seem deterred by the man who was standing on the street corner wearing a Santa hat and beard over a skull mask, and a large ‘Santa is Satan’ placard. I’d seen him a few days ago on Princes Street, too. I noticed that the few locks of hair escaping from beneath the furry white band of the hat were ginger, and it made me think of Bobby Spencer. Could it be him, watching me from behind the skull mask? Positioning himself on street corners around Edinburgh so he could spy on me undetected?
I forced the image out of my mind. I had more pressing things to worry about. Jonathan and I had both had doctor’s appointments that morning. He’d agreed to see the doctor after the sleepwalking episode as one of a range of measures – including giving up cheese-on-toast before bed, turning his BlackBerry off at night, and a sturdy stair-gate across the doorway of our room. However he’d emerged looking smug.
‘Sleepwalking is not a sign of mental disorder, Cassie,’ he’d said reproachfully as we left the building. ‘The doctor said these episodes mostly just pass of their own accord. She suggested I try putting lavender oil on my pillow. Can you pick some up for me?’
I didn’t tell him that I already had cupboards full of the stuff at home, or that the doctor had frequently made the same suggestion to me, in her desperate attempts to get me out of her office. Today’s visit had been my third this month. This time it was dizziness again and she’d taken a blood test ‘to exclude one or two things.’
What things? I’d been too afraid to ask, but the possibilities were racing now, as I stared out into the street at the Satan-Santa.
‘Cassie!’ It was Jean. ‘Are you all right, my dea
r?’
It was a relief to surface from my imaginings. ‘Hello! Yes, I’m fine! How are you? Is everything okay now?’
‘Oh yes, dear. Sorry I’m a few minutes late. Gerry had a bit of a funny turn this morning and I wanted to make sure he was all right before I left. He’s fine now. He’s watching the football with a Tunnock’s Caramel Wafer. That’ll keep him quiet for a bit.’
We ordered coffee and scones, and Jean started talking about her case. I listened intently, enjoying the feeling as the analytical, practical side of my brain whirred into life.
‘So,’ she began. ‘As I mentioned, the other day, my employers are alleging that there was a . . . well . . . an incident involving Gerry at the clinic.’
She stirred her coffee, and tapped the teaspoon delicately against the china rim of her teacup before placing it back down on the saucer. At the next table, a dark-haired mother appeared with her toddler son. As she was folding up their coats and scarves and stowing them on the buggy, the boy stood up on his chair, reached across the table and emptied a pot of sugar sachets onto the floor.
‘Oops,’ I said, and bent down to help the mother pick them up.
When I returned my attention to Jean she nodded and went on. ‘There was this one client. She was called Nina Deneuve. She’d been to the clinic a few times for the odd facial or massage, but had then phoned up asking to book in for “The Works”. They had set this up as a marketing gimmick. It was supposed to be like on those television programmes. The client would first of all see Wilf, the lifestyle coach, to sort out their personal issues and so on. Quite often, they would be talked into booking a series of six or ten “confidence building” sessions. He took them to bars and the like, and made them approach strange men. What nonsense. In my day, it was the men who did the running.’
I nodded vigorously. At the next table, the little boy was pulling at his mother’s arm. ‘Miwksake, Mama. Stawbelly.’
‘Then, the client would see Dr Bourne, the cosmetic surgeon, who would make recommendations for whatever they needed – a chemical peel or what have you. Then they would have their hair done, and see the beauty therapist. A lot of it’s in the eyebrows, you know. They don’t tell you that. But get the eyebrows right, and they frame your face, take ten years off you. Then there’s the clothes therapist.’
‘What does a clothes therapist actually do?’ I asked. ‘Is it just a question of choosing some new clothes?’
‘Oh no, dear. They delve into all your personal issues; for example you might point-blank refuse to wear yellow, because of an experience as a child. Perhaps you wore it to a children’s birthday party and were teased about it, or something of that sort. The clothes therapist would then have to desensitise you so that you could wear yellow again. Maybe making you walk around the town centre in a yellow coat and hat. And the idea is that this would liberate you, and allow you to make more healthy clothes choices.’
‘Oh dear. And what if you just don’t like yellow?’
‘Oh no, dear. If you say you “don’t like” any item of clothing, that just reflects an inner conflict. And then you would have to go through the desensitisation process. It’s actually best to say you like everything – that’s what I tell the girls when they check in for their appointments. On the quiet, of course.
‘But it’s an expensive business. You have to put £700 on deposit just to pay for the clothes that the therapist chooses for you.’
‘Gosh. Just for the clothes? And the therapist purposely chooses things you don’t like?’
‘Yes. But the idea is that you will like them by the end. Anyway, back to Nina Deneuve. “The Works” was being advertised in all the Sunday newspapers, and there had been a fair few clients coming forward for it. It was a big money spinner. And the girls really did look a lot better, more confident, once they’d completed the course of treatments.’
‘That’s great,’ I said. I wondered whether my involvement in Jean’s case would preclude me from booking in for ‘The Works’. God knows, I thought, I could do with it. I thought I could probably get round the clothes therapist by pretending to dislike navy and black.
‘But the thing is, dear . . .’ Now Jean leaned forward, as if to drop a bombshell, and paused dramatically. ‘They don’t push the chiropody! That’s not even advertised as part of the package!’
She sat back, triumphantly, and placed her teacup back in its saucer with a loud clack.
‘Maybe it’s not seen as so . . . glamorous . . . as the other things?’
‘That’s as may be, but to my mind it’s because they want to get Mary out! I think Wilf’s been planning that for some time, ever since he took over the business.’
‘But, you were saying about Nina Deneuve?’ I had to steer Jean away from her conspiracy theories.
‘Yes. So, this Nina Deneuve had booked herself in for “The Works”, and she was in the waiting room, waiting to see Wilf for her first assessment. Gerry was in his wheelchair that day. He can walk, you know, but some days when his legs are bad it’s easier for him just to use the wheelchair.
‘Anyway, Gerry wheeled himself up to this Nina, and struck up a conversation. I think he was just trying to be friendly as she did look a bit nervous, if truth be told. I wasn’t really paying attention, since I was on the phone booking in some more clients. But ten minutes later, Nina got up, swept over to the desk and announced that she wanted to cancel her entire treatment regime! Well, I was flabbergasted. Didn’t know what to say. I had to enforce the cancellation charge, but that was just half the cost of the first session, only about £50. It meant thousands of pounds in lost income, if you took into account the full treatment regime.’
She shook her head and carefully poured another cup of tea. At the next table, the little boy pointed out of the window suddenly, knocking over his milkshake. ‘Mama! Scaywy Santa, ook!’ He burst into tears and buried his head in his mother’s lap.
I went over with a handful of napkins and tried to help clean up the mess until a waitress appeared with a cloth. The mother smiled a thank-you at me, continuing to stroke her son’s curly head as he sobbed.
Jean, looking out of the window, shook her head and tutted. ‘Excuse me, dear. I must just pop out for a second.’
She exited the coffee shop and marched up to the scary Santa. She stood there for a minute or two, talking animatedly and wagging a finger. The skull mask dipped dejectedly towards the ground as it received its dressing-down.
I was overcome with admiration. Never in a million years would I have mounted such a challenge. I would have remained rooted to my chair, thinking about the potential consequences. Would I be interfering with the Santa’s freedom of expression? Possibly even discriminating against him on the grounds of religion, contrary to the European Convention on Human Rights as incorporated into UK law? And what if he had a knife hidden under his red velour costume?
But that was no way to live. Maybe I needed to be more like Jean. If something wasn’t right, you should do something about it. You should step up and take control.
Finishing her tirade, Jean pointed firmly down the street. The Santa took off the placard, tucked it under his arm, and walked off.
Jean came back into the coffee shop. She patted the toddler’s shoulder. ‘Now don’t worry, you wee soul. That wasn’t the real Santa. He was a naughty man just pretending, but he’s gone now.’
The child looked up from his mother’s lap, his face trailed with tears and snot. He hiccupped, and stuck his thumb in his mouth.
‘Thank you,’ said the mother.
Jean waved her away with a smile and shuffled back into her chair.
‘Now, where was I, dear? Oh yes. Nina Deneuve cancelling her treatment. Well, anyway, when Wilf realised what had happened, he asked to speak to me and Gerry in private. He asked Gerry what on earth he’d said to Nina, as it had obviously made her change her mind. Gerry was grumpy about it. He said, “I can’t remember. I think we had a good chat about different brands of incontinence p
ants.” And he wheeled himself out in a huff.’
I realised that some reaction was expected of me. I raised my eyebrows and gave a thoughtful nod.
‘It was just a week or so later that Wilf took on this Chantal-Marie woman as his PA and HR manager. Stuff and nonsense, I say.’
And who could begin to argue with that? When you were with Jean you couldn’t help feeling that the world was being set to rights, and that the process would be completed before very much longer if she had anything to do with it. I shook my head gravely and began to butter another scone.
22
Sophie took her first steps on Christmas Eve. She waited, bright-eyed, until she had a full audience. Mum had just flown in from Stockholm – Granny Britt’s niece had taken over her caring duties for a few weeks – and was seated in the best chair in the living room having a cup of tea. Dita was hovering over the coffee table, cutting a chocolate Yule log she’d made in honour of Mum’s arrival, debating with Jonathan how big the slices should be.
Sophie stood up in the middle of the room, her sturdy pink feet planted wide apart (I had ignored my mother’s loud protestations about bare feet in December). She clapped together the two plastic frogs she was holding, and said a very loud ‘Gaaaa’. Then she transferred all her weight to her left foot, and dragged her right towards it. She teetered onto the right one, wobbled there for a moment, and flumped on to the carpet.
‘That was a step!’ Jonathan leapt to his feet. ‘That was definitely a step.’
‘Try again, Sophie!’ shouted Dita.
‘My baby,’ I whispered. ‘My little baby.’
Mum just sat back in her chair with a quiet smile, as though confident it was her arrival that had precipitated this miracle.
When Jonathan and I came down with temperatures and vomiting during the night, it was Mum who stepped up to the role of Christmas co-ordinator extraordinaire. She dressed Sophie up in her reindeer outfit and ears, and videoed her ‘opening her presents’ (though she was actually attempting to eat a three-dimensional noughts and crosses game at the time). She put the turkey on to roast, and set Dita up at the kitchen table peeling vast quantities of vegetables, because she was sure Jonathan and I could ‘manage a parsnip or two.’