Sing me to Sleep

by Helen Moorhouse

  She holds the wine aloft with one hand and fiddles thoughtfully with the pearls at the neck of her silk vest for a moment.

  “Was it a great day?” she asks, draping herself over the back of the couch.

  I can see her intentions clearly now. I am not cold in my grave and this bitch, this praying mantis, is daring to make a move on my husband. Don’t you dare, I think. Don’t you bloody dare.

  Ed has leaned forward on the couch, his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped loosely together. In order to see her properly, he has to turn his head to look over his left shoulder.

  Natalie, draped like a piece of fabric, nods at the wedding photograph, and raises her eyebrows at him to indicate that she means our wedding. This registers with Ed and he looks back at it, finally realising what she’s talking about. He sighs heavily.

  “It was a funny old day,” he says suddenly and for the first time ever I feel a little funny too about what he’s going to say.

  In fact, I don’t want him to say any more.

  “Jen was – well, you knew her too – she was so stubborn when she wanted to be,” he says. “Could really dig her heels in about stuff.”

  Stop, Ed, I think. Just stop now.

  Natalie tinkles again. “Oh, you’ve never said a truer word, Ed!” she replies, her lips folding too far back over her teeth and shaking her head in an ‘oh you!’ fashion at my husband.

  To my disgust Ed laughs along with her. I want them to stop. For Ed to stop being so stupid in falling for this, and for Natalie to just get lost before I get any madder.

  “I’ve never said this to anyone, but I would have loved a church wedding,” he says suddenly and if I had a heart to stop, it would. What the hell is he talking about?

  Natalie raises her eyebrows interestedly, as if he’s just announced some new advance in science or his intention to walk on Saturn. Again Stupid Ed nods in response, as if he’s said something really interesting.

  “I would have,” he says again.

  Shut up, Ed.

  “The whole day, for something that was meant to be so simple – it was just such hard work.”

  I stare at him, dumbstruck. It was your bloody mother who made it hard work, Ed! That and those harpies that you call your sisters. Wasn’t it? Besides which, you said that it was perfect, that it was everything that you wanted. And if you hated it so much, why couldn’t you tell me? Or keep it to your bloody self? Why tell Natalie, lounging on the couch like a spaniel waiting to have her bits tickled? I don’t think I have ever felt so angry, or so betrayed. Why doesn’t he go take my wedding dress out of the wardrobe and use it as loo roll?

  “Didn’t you have a say?” Natalie, pipes up, glugging back her Montepulciano like it’s iced water and thrusting her bosoms out like two cakes on a plate.

  And what does Ed do? He shrugs. Shrugs his weakling shoulders, his noncommittal look spread all over his face. Like all of a sudden he can’t say any more. Like he hasn’t said enough as it is. Like that shrug doesn’t speak volumes.

  There’s silence then, between the two of them. Ed staring at the picture with some stupid, hurt-puppy expression on his face. And Natalie, that bloody Black Widow, staring at Ed like he’s a dessert trolley waiting to be attacked. Licking her lips and swigging the booze until it’s gone. Letting a little burp out and giggling like a Japanese schoolgirl. Covering her mouth with her big red claws like she’s been to finishing school or something.

  And then Ed drops a bombshell back into the room.

  “I adored her, Natalie,” he says, without tears, staring at my picture with eyes that have grown soft. To hell with you, Ed, I think. How dare you do that to me? How dare you use the word ‘adore’? I’ve never been adored. You’ve never said that before. You shouldn’t adore me – are you remotely aware of that? You shouldn’t. And there’s no one left to tell you why, to tell you how much you should hate me.

  Natalie isn’t sure what to do. She looks at the floor, where she’s placed her empty glass, looking like she’s hoping the wine fairies have refilled it while Ed’s been declaring his love for me. He stares at the picture like she isn’t there, and she doesn’t know what to do. And then he sits back sharply on the couch, again ignoring her, and he raises his hands to cover his eyes as I have seen him do so often since last Christmas. He stays like that, silent for a long time. Like she doesn’t exist. Then he lowers his hands, opens his eyes and stares ahead of him, still oblivious to her presence. I can see in her helpless eyes that she’s decided it’s now or never. Make it never, bitch. Make it never.

  Except it’s now. She picks her moment, breathes in deeply and throws herself across the couch, raising a mannish hand to cup Ed’s face on one side, pushing out her thin lips, trying her best to touch his with them in a gentle and alluring way. She misses, gets the side of his chin. If I wasn’t so mad at them both, I’d laugh.

  Except I’m getting madder because, instead of pushing himself away, Ed jumps in surprise, and then for a moment, just a moment, he responds. His face turning in towards Natalie who now looks like a fish stuck to the side of a tank. And he kisses her back. It’s only for a moment, but he kisses her. A surge of rage goes through me.

  This is what it would feel like, I realise suddenly. Betrayal. The rage grows . . .

  It’s at that moment, when I am filled with this fury, that I do it. That I make the crash which makes them jump apart. That I smash our wedding photograph into pieces somehow. That I shatter it so that the glass of the frame looks like a spider web for an instant before the whole thing crashes to the floor.

  I did that, I realise. My anger did that. Because the memories that it gives me – the feelings it makes me feel – are too much. It’s all too much – everything that Ed has said, the things that I didn’t know about our wedding, the fact that he still adores me, the fact that a tart, under the guise of being my friend, has come to my house, drunk my wine, kissed my child, joined in like she belonged – all with the sole intention of getting her leg over my husband. If I could take a breath I would.

  The two of them jump apart and look simultaneously at the floor where the picture has fallen. The room’s gone still now, the chemistry between them as shattered as the glass frame. I am sick with nerves that it will repair itself and continue. I watch them both: Natalie looking annoyed but composing herself, turning her sucker lips back for more – Ed, alarmed, looking at our shattered wedding photograph and then back at Natalie’s face. I can’t be sure, but I think he recoils a little. He pushes his body away from the approaching onslaught of her upper torso and magnetic lips and coughs politely.

  “I think you should stop, Natalie,” he says.

  Relief washes over me.

  Natalie’s eyes grow wide, and she retreats a fraction of an inch but she soon regains her composure and recommences the slow attack, lips pursed, breath growing short. I despair of her. She embarrasses me. Back it up, lady, I think. The boy said no. And then he says it again.

  “No, Natalie.” He’s being kind, but firm. “It’s not . . . I don’t . . . feel this is right . . .”

  That does it. As effective as a smack in the face. My former colleague sits up sharply, back ramrod straight. “What do you mean, Ed?” she says, her tone a little more demanding. “I mean, you were there with me a moment ago. I felt the energy.” The voice softens toward the end of the sentence. There’s more energy where that came from, I think.

  Ed sits up straight himself now, trying to increase the distance between them, discomfort apparent on his face. “That was a mistake, Natalie,” he says kindly again. “Look, Jen’s not . . . I mean I can’t, it doesn’t feel right . . . and Bee . . .” his voice trails off as he glances upstairs. Trying the not-in-front-of-the-children approach.

  She’s persistent, Natalie, I’ll give her that, I think as she tries a different tack.

  “Ed, I know you’ve been through a lot but . . .” breathy whisper, “Jenny’s gone.”

  It has no effect on Ed. In fact
, he takes this as his cue to remove himself physically from the situation and he stands up sharply, pushing past her long legs which have tried to entangle themselves in his.

  “I think you should go, Natalie,” he says quietly, standing up.

  He is rewarded with a look of outrage.

  He responds with a frown. The face is one I know. The one that says he just doesn’t want to talk about this any more.

  I look back at Natalie who is virtually spluttering with anger but holding everything together.

  “Just leave, Natalie,” says Ed firmly. “It’s been a long day and I just need time to think. Just to be on my own. It’s too soon after Jen . . .”

  “Bloody Jenny!” she retorts, picking up her navy-blue jacket with the gold buttons where it’s been slung over the armchair since the last of the guests left. Her lipstick is smudged and her breathing shallow, her face ugly with growing fury. “Saint Jenny!” she spits and looks around for her handbag. She’s leaving all right, but not without a fight. “Saint Jenny, wonderful Jenny, beautiful stubborn Jenny who you adored. You’d want to get this into your skull, Ed – she’s been dead a long time now and she’s not coming back, so you’d want to get used to that, and move on sooner or later.”

  And with that, she’s gone, flouncing out through the living-room door and through the hall beyond, her court heels clacking on the wooden floor. The front door slams loudly and then there’s silence.

  I look back at Ed who stands still for a moment and shakes his head to clear it before picking up the two wineglasses, one full, one drained, and heading out to the kitchen. How I long to talk to him! To ask him to quell the panic that gnaws at my gut after Natalie’s words. When she said that he needed to move on. But you adore me, Ed, right? Even though you shouldn’t. Even though I don’t deserve you. You’re not going to move on, are you? The thought has never crossed my mind up until now. That he could move on, see someone else – kiss someone else, make love with them – talk with them like we used to talk.

  Because I’m not ready for that – how can I ever be ready for that when he doesn’t know how sorry I am? When he doesn’t know anything – when he doesn’t know that I adore him a million times more than he adores me. When he doesn’t know that I can’t leave him. Ever.

  Chapter 8

  1994

  Ed and Jenny

  Jenny, of course, wanted to be ironic about it – wanted to put the Toon Award in their new toilet.

  “That’s what Emma Thompson did with her Oscar,” she’d told Ed matter of factly as they’d wrapped it carefully in layer after layer of bubble wrap. “Imagine Vicky walking in to have a poo and there’s a Toon Award staring at her, as won by her baby brother!”

  Ed had smiled faintly at the notion but had firmly put that idea away for good. “You know, she wouldn’t know what it was, Jen,” he’d said. “And neither would Mum – she’d probably try to scrape off limescale with it – or use it as a toilet brush or something.”

  Like an excited puppy, Jen suddenly paused in what she was doing. “We’ll put it in the en suite instead – oh my God! Imagine, Ed!” She stared with wide eyes into the middle distance.

  “What, Jen?” he’d replied, a smile forming on his lips.

  “We’re going to have an en suite toilet to have limescale in!” She clapped her hands together in glee as she piled more books into an already overstretched cardboard box before abandoning it to start filling another.

  Ed grinned and placed the award carefully into its small moleskin pouch, setting it safely to one side. That done, he shuffled over to the box Jenny had just abandoned and removed the paperbacks that were about to spill over the top and slid them into another empty carton. Nearly there, he thought to himself, as he glanced around at the few belongings they had accumulated in their flat over the months they had lived there.

  The Toon eventually travelled from the flat to their new home on Ed’s knee in the removal van, for safety, and took up residence in pride of place on the mantelpiece. It was what, Ed knew, had enabled them to move. To get a mortgage. To buy their first house. Our house, he said to himself on the way, over and over again, as the van trundled past shops and down tree-lined streets.

  Winning the Best Newcomer Toon Award 1993 was a real coup for Ed Mycroft. Out of nowhere, his creation – a rock-music-obsessed monster – had become an overnight success. It was a first for Brightwater Animations: a feature-length movie and a commercial success. With Grimlet Goes Wild making a killing at the box office, they were well in a position to award Ed with an enormous bonus. In fact, it would have been imprudent for them not to. “Can’t let this guy slip through our fingers,” his bosses had said. At only twenty-four, Ed was very hot property indeed.

  Also at twenty-four, Jenny Adams-Mycroft worked, if not contentedly, at least with her trademark diligence and dedication, as a regional manager of the Movie Kingdom chain of video stores where she had begun her career as a student part-time. She’d kept her job, even when Ed had come home, stunned, to tell her that he had won one of animation’s most prestigious awards and that his bosses had given him a very large cheque as a reward, with a promise of more to come.

  “Anything could happen, Ed,” she’d reasoned cautiously when Ed had proposed that she give up her job now that they could afford it. “And besides which, if I didn’t work what would I do with myself all day?”

  A shadow had crossed Ed’s face when she said this. He knew what she could do, of course. Pursue her long-lost place at university. He could even finance setting her up in her own business, designing clothes, at which it had become clear she was inordinately talented. But he knew what would happen if he brought that up again and, this time, he left it for a change. He didn’t want to spoil the mood.

  “You can stay at home and housekeep our lovely new house that we’re going to buy with all that lovely money,” he’d offered. “And learn to drive the lovely new car I’m going to buy you to go with it.”

  Jenny had rolled her eyes. “Can we really afford a house and a car, Ed?” she’d asked timidly.

  Ed had nodded in response, reassuringly. “Yes, Jen. We can afford a new car and a new house. And a pair of new Doc Martens for you if you like,” he’d added.

  Her face had broken into a grin. “Can I have oxblood ones, Ed?” she’d asked with a smile and he’d nodded benevolently. Jenny had patted his knee and stood up from the sofa in the living room of the tiny flat they had rented since getting married. “Thanks, Daddy Warbucks,” she grinned. “Cuppa?” She took a step toward the door of the kitchen before pausing and turning to look back at him.

  “Ed,” she said.

  “Yes, Jen. What would you like now? A golden watch? A stuffed pig? A Wonderbra?”

  Jenny smiled and shook her head slightly, her new fringe falling into her eyes. “Being serious for a minute, Ed,” she started, “I’m so unbelievably, incredibly proud of you that I can’t even put it into words, you know.”

  Ed blushed.

  “You’re a bloody genius,” she continued quietly, her gaze filled with love as she looked at him sitting on the floor, staring back at her. “And I admire you more than anyone I’ve ever known.”

  Silence fell and they stared at each other for a while longer before Jenny looked down at her feet. Ed continued to stare at her. “Thank you,” he said eventually, quietly, taking her in. His wife. So beautiful. Their whole future ahead of them. They were going to be so incredibly happy.

  Jenny coughed. “Right then,” she said, snapping back to normal form. “Maybe you could put those millions to good use and nip down to the corner shop for something more exotic than a fig roll while I put the kettle on?”

  And Ed suddenly found himself roaring with laughter at her, and feeling thrilled, feeling alive to his fingertips with the possibilities that lay ahead.

  Chapter 9

  1994

  Guillaume

  Guillaume had seen Pilton Gardens before ever Jenny set foot across the threshold,
before Ed had finally signed on the dotted line.

  “Please come with me, Gui,” Ed had begged his friend. “I just want a second opinion before I take Jenny to see it. She wants to put the bonus into a bank account and never lay a finger on it in case we’re bankrupted suddenly. My round, isn’t it?”

  Guillaume Melesi – father Botswanan ambassador, mother French model – laughed aloud with his huge booming chuckle. He and Ed, his best friend since first form at school, had discussed this prospective house purchase over two pints already, and he had to admit that he was growing more than a little bored of hearing about Victorian red-brick semis and the potential for the garden, blah blah blah.

  Guillaume stretched his six-foot-two frame to its full height and stood up from his bar stool.

  “Okay, okay,” he replied, showing Ed the palms of his hands to stop the pleading. “Just let me use the gents’ and you get another round in and we’ll go then – but this is a short visit, right? You and I are on a boys’ night out to celebrate your big success – after we see it, then no wife or house talk allowed, geddit?”

  Guillaume sloped off in the direction of the gents’. Not for the first time, he wondered what exactly Ed thought he was doing. At twenty-four years of age? In the prime of his life? Married? Tied down? That wasn’t Guillaume’s style. Marriage – that was imprisonment, and he had no intention of locking himself up and couldn’t understand why Ed had. Why, when there was so much out there to see and do? So far he had spent two gap years touring France and Africa as a nod to his heritage; had dropped out of a degree in engineering and was currently taking some time out to think about exactly what it was he wanted to do next. Japan, he was thinking. Technology. Computers. Worlds of possibility . . .