“You should write a cookbook,” mused Dora, staring down at the spidery handwritten notes for a gooseberry and elderflower ice cream.
“Oh I’m a bit old for that now.” Betty laughed. “Besides, I’d never live it down with my friends in the village. I can hear them all now: That Betty Dryden…always did have ideas above her station!”
“Not true!” cried Dora. “From what I’ve heard you’d give Delia Smith a run for her money!”
“What rot.” Betty laughed, but an attractive flush had risen in her cheeks and Dora could tell by the way she fussed with the knitted tea cozy that she was flattered by the compliment. “Now then,” she said, carrying the tray to the table and pouring milk into the cups, “what about you, Dora? How are you, dear girl?”
Dora took one of the flapjacks from the plate Betty had pushed toward her and nibbled at a sticky corner as she wondered how to reply. In the end she decided on the truth. “Not so good I’m afraid.” She paused, took a deep breath and then continued. “It feels as though everything’s falling apart, Betty…” She took another breath. “And I’m afraid it’s all my fault.”
“What’s your fault, dear girl?”
“Everything. Alfie going missing; Cassie…leaving; Mum and Dad fighting all the time. It’s all my fault.”
“And what makes you think that?” The concern in the old lady’s eyes was enough to keep her talking.
“Because it all traces back to that day last year, the day when I went off by myself when I should have been looking after Alfie. The day I decided to hang out with a boy from school and took too long getting back to the cave.” She drops her head to her hands. “Now Cassie’s run off and it’s set Mum and Dad off again. They’re at each other’s throats. I just feel like the whole horrid mess is all down to me and that one day.” She gave a hollow laugh. “Mum named me well. That day, on the beach, it’s as if I opened up Pandora’s box and released a world of pain into our lives. It’s like I’ve gathered up everyone’s hearts and smashed them into a million pieces and now I don’t know how to put them back together.”
Dora’s final words came in a rush and although she couldn’t meet Betty’s gaze, she felt the old woman’s papery hand reach for hers and was grateful for the warmth of her touch.
“Too much pain for one family,” said Betty, shaking her head, “far too much pain. It’s not your fault, Dora. It’s not anyone’s fault. A terrible thing happened to Alfie, but there’s nothing to be gained by blaming yourself.”
Dora sighed. Betty didn’t get it. No one did. They didn’t have to live at Clifftops, surrounded by the pain and grief, dodging the haunted faces of her shattered parents, dislocated from her tortured sister, and taunted by memories of a happier past and of what could have been.
“Terrible things happen to good people. It’s a sad fact of life. But no matter what’s happened in the past I do know one thing: You’re still a family,” said Betty, squeezing her hand. “You can find your way back from this.”
Dora shook her head. “You’re wrong, Betty. Our family disappeared that day on the beach…with Alfie. It’s like we all drowned with him.” She drops her gaze. “You know, I can’t remember the last time any of us said we loved each other.”
“But of course they love you, Dora. They may not be able to show it very clearly at the moment, but—”
“No! They don’t, and they shouldn’t, you see, because it’s my fault! I don’t deserve their love anymore. I don’t deserve anyone’s love. I ruined everything. I destroyed it all.” Blinded by the tears streaming down her face, Dora felt herself pulled into a warm, flapjack-scented embrace and clung to the old lady for what seemed like an eternity, letting her shush her over and over until Dora felt as though she had no more tears to cry.
“There, there,” said Betty, handing her an embroidered handkerchief. “It will all work out, you’ll see. Nothing stays the same forever. You’ll all move forward from this. It will be hard, but you will.”
Dora shook her head. None of them could carry on that way but she just couldn’t see a way for things to get any better.
“One day, Dora, you’ll have your own family. Then you’ll understand.”
“No,” said Dora vehemently. “I won’t. I don’t want a family if it means I could ever feel like this again.”
Betty eyed her. She could see the woman didn’t believe her, but deep down Dora knew. She knew she couldn’t ignore the feeling in the pit of her stomach that told her they were all still falling off the blackest of precipices, and that they still had a long, long way to go before they hit the bottom.
Chapter 15
Dora
Present Day
Dora is hiding. She knows it’s unprofessional. She knows she should be out there with the rest of the team, going through the concepts for the Sunrise Cereals presentation, but she just can’t summon the energy—or the stomach. Some genius has thought it would be a good idea to open the sample boxes of Wheat Fizzies the client has sent to them and the smell of sugary, sweet-and-sour cereal hangs on the air, making her stomach flip dangerously. Bloody morning sickness. She swallows hard and eyes the trash can under her desk. It’s her only option. She can’t face running through the packed office floor to the ladies’ room. She takes deep breaths through her mouth and closes her eyes, trying to think of something that will make her feel less nauseous. She settles on snow. There is nothing offensive about snow, with its cool, white, wonderful nothingness, and it is a damn sight better than the thought of Wheat Fizzies.
Urgh. There she goes again—straight back to food. It is like some form of sadistic torture her mind puts her body through. Wheat Fizzies are the bane of her existence right now. She opens an eye and glances quickly at the mood boards on her desk. She is greeted by images of clean-cut children’s faces grinning back at her, all perfect toothpaste-white smiles and neatly combed hair as they sit around breakfast tables with their parents. They don’t look like any kids she’s seen recently, but it is too late to change things now.
The brief had been for an irreverent breakfast cereal launch, something the kids would love, and would eventually win around the parents. That was the challenge: to generate a formidable pester-power. But what she sees staring back at her is no different from a thousand other breakfast cereal launches she’s seen before. It is bland in the extreme, and while Wheat Fizzies can be accused of being many things, bland certainly isn’t one of them. Her first taste of the puffed cereal had nearly sent her skidding to the bathroom at full pelt. The kids will go crazy for it; that much is a given. A cereal that can turn your milk fizzy is too cool for words, but it is definitely an acquired taste for the more adult palate.
She holds up a storyboard and eyes it critically. Their hook, a superhero called Captain Fizz, is mocked up in a cartoon strip. He is battling the giants of the breakfast table, propelling himself off a spoon at a slice of dry toast, bursting through a bowl of unappetizing-looking muesli, and fighting off the perils of a gloopy porridge. It ends with the tagline: You Can’t Fight the Fizz. It isn’t the most original creative she has seen, but the directors at Sunrise Cereals are due at their offices within the hour. There is no time to change anything now.
She sighs. This is the part of the job she hates: pitching ideas she doesn’t believe in to clients in such a way that they will walk out of the offices delighted with the agency and happy with its exorbitant fees. Sometimes she hates advertising.
She has just about pulled herself together when their creative director, Leela, appears at her desk.
“Are you ready, my lovely?” Leela asks, adjusting a laptop and folder of papers in her arms. “I’m going to head up to the boardroom and set up…” Her words trail off as she looks at Dora. “Oh, you look like shit. Are you okay?”
Dora smiles in spite of herself. Diminutive Leela with her perfect coffee-colored skin, lustrous black hair, and tongue as sharp as steel. She has never been one to beat around the bush. “Yeah, I’m okay; I just ate somet
hing dodgy last night. I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure? I mean, I don’t want to be rude but you really don’t look too good.”
“Seriously, Lee, I’ll be fine. It’s just the smell of that bloody cereal.”
Leela laughs. “Yeah, that’s why I’m heading upstairs. It’s making my stomach churn too. Dominic had better give us a bloody big bonus for this one.”
Dora nods. “You go on ahead—I’ll be up in a moment.”
“Okay.” Leela looks at her with concern, turns to go and then swings back. “Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but you might want to try some blusher.”
“A bit pale?”
“Well, you know Cate Blanchett at the end of that movie Elizabeth…”
Dora laughs weakly. “Say no more. I’ll get my makeup bag.”
The Sunrise executives arrive on time and the meeting begins well. The clients smile and nod encouragingly as Dora talks through the launch strategy and the rationale behind their Captain Fizz character. The creatives pull up the graphics and storyboards and by the time they have lined up the show reel Dora is feeling confident. The Sunrise executives are buying into it.
Before they dim the lights for their finale reel, Dominic stands to address the group. “Tina, Rick…” He addresses each of the executives in turn with his winning smile. “I hope you’re as excited by what you’ve seen here today as we are. We consider your account to be the jewel in the Fielding and Fey crown. It’s a privilege to be working on your business, and even more exciting that we will be launching Wheat Fizzies as our first project together. I think the team here have come up with some sensational ideas and we’re excited about moving these forward over the coming weeks.”
The Sunrise executives smile benevolently up at Dominic. He has a way of putting people at ease, a way of making his clients feel like the most important people to walk the earth.
“To conclude, we’d just like to run you through a short promo reel we’ve put together with rough cuts of the Captain Fizz television spots, and where we feel we can take this campaign. We really do believe we’re on to something big here. As Dora has already said, if we can capture the attention of the three- to eight-year-old demographic, the sky really will be the limit.”
With well-timed efficiency the lights in the boardroom are dimmed and everyone turns their attention to the giant plasma screen running across one wall of the room. Dora swivels round in her chair for a better view. She hasn’t seen the tape; it has been running late and she is interested to see what Leela and her team have come up with to deliver the final, knockout punch. She sees Leela grin at her from across the room. She is obviously happy; it’s a good sign.
The tape starts innocuously enough. There are roughs of the television ads and images of Captain Fizz battling against some of Sunrise’s biggest competing brands. The executives chuckle in their seats and Dominic turns to give her a little wink. Then the tape shifts. It shows images of young children, around three or four years old she guesses, running around a playground. They are laughing and playing innocently enough, but as Dora watches the scene unfold, she feels something dreadful grip at her stomach. She sits there in the dark, mesmerized by the screen. The children are dressed as their new marketing icon, Captain Fizz. They wear red trousers, blue T-shirts, and long, homemade capes. As they run and play they throw Wheat Fizzies around laughing. “Take that! And that! You Can’t Fight the Fizz!” they cry with cheerful glee and then, as the tape draws to its conclusion, one adorable blond-haired boy turns straight to the camera and proclaims with an innocent, gap-toothed smile, “I love Captain Fizz: He’s the bestest superhero of them all.”
Dora feels something lurch sickeningly within and, without further warning, she leans over and vomits all over the Sunrise sales director’s impossibly shiny shoes.
She is sitting at her desk with her head in her hands when Dominic finds her. He knocks lightly on her door before entering and seating himself in the chair opposite.
“What the hell happened to you back there?”
“It’s…er…nothing, just a touch of food poisoning. I’m so sorry. I thought I was over it. I really hope I didn’t ruin things for the team.”
Dominic waves his hand dismissively. “Forget the team for a moment. A new pair of shoes and a spot of Febreze is all it took. The Sunrise people have gone away happy and we’re committed to stage two. It’s a great result. I can hardly believe it myself; I never thought they’d buy that Captain Fizz crap.”
Dora smiles weakly.
“No,” he continues. “It’s you I’m worried about. You haven’t been yourself these last few weeks. And don’t tell me it’s food poisoning. I know you better than that, Dora. If something’s bothering you, then I want to know about it.”
Dora looks up at him in surprise. Dominic does not normally go in for touchy-feely management techniques. He is a renowned pit bull. She doesn’t know what to say. She can tell him the truth, but then what is that actually? That she is pregnant and falling apart with guilt from a tragedy that happened ten years ago? It would be hard for a pit bull to swallow.
“Look, Dominic, I will tell you, but not yet, okay? You have to trust me. This is personal. I know I need to get it sorted out.” She sighs. “Can you leave it with me for now and if things haven’t improved in a few days, well, then you’re welcome to come back in here and sack my sorry arse. Is that okay?”
Dominic looks at her with concern. “I’d like to help, if I can.”
“Honestly, Dom, trust me, you’re not the one who can help me right now.”
He stares back at her for a moment and then throws up his hands in defeat. “Okay, I won’t ask again. You’ve got two weeks. I don’t want to see you back in the office until then, okay?”
Dora nods, grateful that he doesn’t require any further explanation at this stage.
He stands and walks toward the door. “You did good in there today, you know?” he says as he reaches the hallway. “And I would never sack your sorry arse as you so sweetly put it—certainly not because of a small bout of food poisoning. Besides,” he says with a knowing wink, “they were terrible shoes.”
Dora breathes a sigh of relief.
“Now, get yourself home to bed, young lady, before I see any more of your breakfast on my carpet!”
She still feels queasy, so rather than take the bus Dora decides to walk for a while. It’s warm out and by the look of the puddles splashed across the pavement she’s just missed a summer shower. The air is still damp and probably as fresh as it will ever get in London so as she walks she breathes in great lungfuls of the stuff, trying not to think about the exhaust fumes she’s inhaling too.
She makes her way along Old Street, under the railway bridge covered in graffiti, and past a celebrated Banksy mural before cutting up through Hoxton Square, weaving past council estates, corner shops, and old Victorian terraces made good by the affluent media set. The council has been busy; flowers burst from beds and tubs, their bright colors in stark contrast to the gray cityscape. She sees a fluorescent yellow police sign appealing for information about an assault, and farther on a wall of beer kegs stacked outside a pub. Sunlight peers cautiously through the clouds, as if checking if it is safe to come out; its rays bounce down onto the silver kegs, blinding her momentarily with their glare.
She carries on through the maze of estates until she sees the canal. The sun is still out and the sight of it glimmering on the pond-green water entices her down onto the towpath. There is no one visible in either direction and she pauses for a moment, peering into the water, watching as it creeps slowly past. There is a sheen of rainbow-colored oil at the surface; an empty plastic bottle bobs up and down like a fisherman’s float. Away from the hum of traffic and people it is suddenly and strangely quiet. Dora likes it; there is something about the relative stillness of the canal, the imperfect, dirty beauty of the waterway that appeals to her. She stays there for a few minutes, gazing into the dark, shifting mass of water, unt
il a cyclist speeds toward her, dinging his bell. She waits for him to pass before heading down the canal path.
Halfway down the path she shrugs off her jacket. The sun has gained in confidence. Two ducks splash in the reed beds on the far side of the canal; Dora wishes she had some bread to throw. Every so often she passes a barge, moored to the side. Most are dilapidated old things, all crackled paint, rotting wood, and grimy tarpaulin shrouds, but one or two are well cared for. She has just stopped to admire a beautiful red-and-blue boat with cheery checked curtains and an array of potted geraniums scattered across its deck when she sees the man walking toward her.
He is a long way off, a hundred meters or so, but the sight of him—and the young boy loping at his side—is like a physical blow to her body. The air rushes from her lungs. Blood drains from her face and her pupils dilate with shock, like the aperture of a camera seeking light. All around sound fades as her brain zeros in on the two figures walking toward her.
They’re still fifty meters away but she knows beyond all doubt that it’s him: whippet-thin with snakelike hips and long dark hair.
She knows it’s the man from the beach.
She peers as they come closer. The boy trotting along next to him is dressed in a school uniform. He seems to be having trouble keeping up. An oversize satchel bounces on his back in time to his hurried steps. Dora cannot see the boy’s face, since he is too busy watching the path as it races beneath his feet, but the shock of his straw-like hair glinting in the sunshine is enough to make her feel dizzy. She reaches out and puts a steadying hand on the barge.
Thirty meters…twenty meters. She cannot take her eyes off them.
The House of Tides Page 26