These Days of Ours

by Juliet Ashton

  ‘Glad to be of help.’

  ‘Don’t.’ Becca said it half-heartedly, as if she knew she had no right. ‘So. Charlie sought me out. He wanted to know how you felt, but he swore me to secrecy. I agreed, cos I wanted to keep the lines of communication open.’

  ‘Plus,’ said Kate, remorseless, ‘it gave you the upper hand, keeping something from me.’

  ‘No.’ Becca looked sorrowful.

  Kate wasn’t buying it. ‘Carry on, for God’s sake. Let’s get this over with.’

  ‘Charlie wasn’t like the Charlie I knew. He was pissed off with you for prolonging the argument.’

  Ten years of backdated umbrage made Kate growl.

  ‘I put him right,’ said Becca, glad to be on the side of the angels, if only momentarily. ‘I said, Charlie, it’s not just Kate’s fault.’ She nodded, pleased with herself. ‘I did my best for you.’

  ‘At this point.’ Kate could imagine Becca’s ambition to be a combination of fairy godmother and Nelson Mandela, an acclaimed peacemaker who would part-own Kate and Charlie’s romance from then on.

  ‘His pride was hurt.’ Becca understood what was going on in Charlie’s mind. ‘Your silence freaked him out. He was afraid to bare his soul in case you’d changed your mind about him.’ Over watery cappuccinos he’d asked Becca, What if we manage to glue everything back together but it just falls apart again at the next silly row? ‘All the change worried him. Him at uni, you at work, with miles and miles between you.’

  During their second or third session – Becca couldn’t remember which – she suggested he write it all down.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell him to pick up the phone? You knew I would have taken him back on the spot.’

  ‘I did!’ Becca was appalled by the injustice of the question. ‘I swear I did! He wouldn’t believe me.’

  ‘That’s because you talk such overblown nonsense all the time.’ The freedom to be bluntly honest was exhilarating.

  ‘I said just call her. I told him to go round and see you.’ But Charlie had insisted Becca take the note, saying he needed an honest answer, not a yes said in pity or in the heat of the moment. ‘I accused him of being a coward.’

  Both women were united for a moment in despising Charlie a little for his lack of courage and what it had caused.

  ‘The moment he handed over the envelope, I knew I’d use it.’ Becca scratched her head. Viciously, as if trying to claw at her thoughts. ‘I wish I could tell you I had a long tussle with myself but I just couldn’t resist the temptation.’

  ‘Your feelings,’ said Kate, ‘had changed.’

  ‘I’d begun to realise what you saw in Charlie. I’d always thought of “niceness” as boring, but he made me feel good. He listened. He thought before he spoke. Treated me as an equal. And he made me laugh.’ Charlie lit a small flame that Becca hadn’t wanted to douse. She hadn’t planned to scupper anything. ‘I hung on to the note. One day. Another day. Three days.’ Becca grew scared of her own boldness. ‘I couldn’t believe I’d done it.’ Like a plundered heart, the envelope throbbed beneath her bed, keeping her awake. ‘I realised I couldn’t give it to you, even though I was frightened by the consequences of what I’d done, because you’d both realise I’d kept it for a while.’

  ‘Owning up is never an option with you, is it?’

  ‘No,’ replied Becca, as if glad that Kate understood. ‘Charlie kept asking for news.’ She fobbed him off until she had her brilliant idea. ‘I realised I could reset everything. Turn the clock back and re-start the process.’ She returned the note. ‘I told him you had no response.’ Becca chewed her thumb nail. ‘So it wasn’t really a lie.’

  ‘It was a huge dirty lie.’ Kate forced herself to stay seated. She wanted to spring out of her seat. ‘If you’re going to rewrite history, there’s no point in us doing this.’

  ‘OK, OK. I lied.’ Becca’s chin puckered as she kept back tears.

  ‘No response meant I’d read it and rejected it. That is not starting again. That is destroying.’ Kate thought of his poetic words, falling – as Charlie thought – on deaf ears.

  ‘You’re right.’ Becca had been whitewashing her duplicity to herself. ‘The odd thing was that Charlie didn’t seem shocked. As if he’d half expected it. Everybody knew he’d never felt good enough for you.’

  Everybody? ‘I didn’t know it.’

  ‘Growing up the way he did. With his mum the way she was . . .’

  ‘I never made him feel he wasn’t good enough. I loved him just the way he was. This is one of your smokescreens, Becca.’

  Evidently terrified of being misconstrued, Becca flapped her hands. ‘No! I’m not accusing you. Charlie did that to himself.’

  ‘So, according to you, we’re all fuck-ups and our individual hang-ups collided in some perfect storm? It was nothing to do with your jealousy and greed and dishonesty and lack of love for the people who care about you?’

  ‘I deserve that.’

  ‘We agree on something at last!’

  Taking a deep breath, Becca looked grateful to be on the final lap. ‘When I gave him back the first note I forced him to sit and write another one. Straight away.’ Clearly proud of her altruism, Becca recalled how she demanded that Charlie write exactly what was in his heart. ‘It only took a few minutes so he obviously copied the original one, more or less. I called you and met you at the shoe shop and handed it over. I kept it for less than an hour this time. No harm done, I thought.’ Becca looked carefully at the unusual look on Kate’s face, before she chanced saying, ‘And then you decided to go out with Julian instead, so . . .’

  The whole farce had been so fine tuned. If Julian hadn’t been hurtling towards Kate’s house when she read that second note, maybe she would have found the wherewithal to confront Charlie. But he had, and she hadn’t. ‘Becca, that note was much shorter because it was final. It told me we were over.’

  ‘He didn’t say he wanted you back?’ Hands flying to her face, Becca looked as if she was watching a car crash in slow motion. ‘But I thought you decided against going back to Charlie because Julian asked you out?’

  Becca hadn’t been listening to Kate back then. Perhaps she never listened. Or more likely, she heard what she wanted to hear, sifting through the words until they were in tune with her own desires. ‘You don’t know me at all.’ It was B-movie dialogue but it was true. ‘Then again . . .’ Kate spread her hands. ‘Clearly, I don’t know you either.’ She would have defended Becca to the gates of Hell if anybody accused her of such treachery. Kate’s outrage was hot and cleansing. She was right, she was righteous, but there was no pleasure in dismantling Becca’s defence. She could justifiably roll over Becca in a tank, with full TV coverage and a specially composed theme tune, but Kate had no appetite for vengeance. More Dad than Mum, she wouldn’t demand an eye for an eye.

  Becca began to talk rapidly, as if channelling a spirit with much to say. ‘It’s taken me years to face what I did. I’m so used to feeling guilty it’s normal to me.’ She’d been looking over her shoulder for her nasty deeds to catch up with her, knowing they must. A drink, she said, helped. ‘I’ve waited for this night. For when it would all come out. As the years went by I relaxed a bit. I couldn’t believe you and Charlie didn’t bring it up, work it out.’ Fatalistic, she’d never kept them apart. ‘You know how impulsive I am. I trusted to luck, put everything on black. Like I did on honeymoon in Vegas.’

  The metaphor was insulting. ‘You won that time, too, I recall.’

  ‘Yup. Ten k.’ Becca picked Jaffa up onto her lap and the dog yawned, closing his jaws with a small wet snap. ‘I didn’t ask too much about that second note. I should have, but I was frightened. The way I sold it to myself was . . . we all came out OK.’

  Kate knew that Becca was referring to the penthouse, the long haul holidays. As if I was paid off handsomely for losing out in love. ‘At least,’ she said, stony, ‘you and Charlie were in love, for a little while.’

  ‘Well . . .’ Bec
ca stroked Jaffa’s domed head a little too hard. ‘The truth? My feelings never really changed. I thought Charlie was great, but he was always just Charlie to me.’

  ‘We have something in common, then. My feelings never changed either. I’m still in love with him.’

  ‘No you’re not,’ scoffed Becca, as if quashing a silly rumour. ‘Not in that way.’

  ‘I love Charlie. In that way.’ Something fell into place inside Kate as she said it.

  ‘But . . .’ Becca was resistant. ‘You fell in love with Julian. You married him.’

  ‘Funny that you of all people can’t believe a woman could marry a man she doesn’t love.’

  ‘You got over Charlie,’ insisted Becca. ‘You chose Julian.’

  ‘Deep down,’ said Kate, ‘you know I didn’t.’

  They both needed a break at that point, like boxers retreating to their corners. Kate escaped to the newly decorated downstairs loo – out with shabby chic, in with minimalism. The smell of paint lingered and the soap was hidden.

  When she emerged a mug of hot chocolate, made just the way she liked it, was at her place.

  As Kate took her seat, Becca said, ‘This’ll make you laugh.’

  ‘I doubt it, but go on.’

  ‘When I’m snappy with you, when I’m a bitch, it’s because I suddenly have an attack of guilt. And then I’m guilty about being snappy. And so on.’ Becca slumped as the spirit retreated. ‘How come you’ve never told Charlie about Flo?’

  In no mood to change the subject, Kate shrugged.

  ‘I was so drunk the night I told you. But I knew what I was doing.’ Becca had handed Kate the weapons to fight back. ‘I offered you my jaw so you could land a right hook.’

  ‘If I hurt you like you hurt me, we’d be quits?’

  ‘It sounds crazy when you put it like that.’

  ‘It all sounds crazy! It did occur to me that I could tell Charlie he wasn’t Flo’s father.’ This was an arena for honesty; Kate may as well admit her own sins. ‘One word from me and your marriage would have been smashed to smithereens.’

  It was almost an aside when Becca said, ‘There wasn’t much to shatter. We were in bad shape by then.’

  ‘I thought you’d hang on to him forever.’ Kate hesitated. ‘I didn’t think Charlie was a leaver.’

  ‘You’ve always had more confidence in me than in yourself.’

  Turning down the corners of her mouth at her own naivety, Kate admitted the delicious thoughts she had entertained that maybe Charlie would come to her if she blew the whistle on Flo’s paternity. ‘As if all those years were a dream and the damage could be plastered over, all lovely and smooth again.’

  ‘That could still happen.’ Becca snapped back to her usual gung-ho self. Even her matted bed hair perked up. ‘Now you know it all, go and tell him the truth. How I tricked him. How you felt about him then. How you feel now.’

  ‘Just because time’s stood still for me . . .’ Kate hung her head, suddenly exhausted. ‘Charlie’s a father. And he’s in love with Lucy.’ She tailed off. Kate knew how Charlie looked when he was in love because it was the way he used to look at her.

  ‘You could chase away Lucy,’ said Becca. ‘Like that.’ She clicked her fingers.

  Kate slammed her palms on the table top. ‘There you go again! Stage managing people! Lucy is a kind, intelligent woman who spends a lot of time with your daughter. Why not thank her instead of clicking your fingers as if she’s a bluebottle you can swat? Thanking people isn’t your style, is it? That would make Lucy more human and we can’t have that. You’re the only one allowed to have fears and desires.’

  ‘There it is!’ Becca pointed at Kate. No longer soggy with contrite fears, her eyes flashed. ‘There’s the reason you and Charlie aren’t together. You’re too busy being Mother Teresa. Fight, Kate! Get some blood on your hands!’ Becca chewed her lips for a moment, a habit she’d lost when they were both eleven years old. ‘If you don’t, I will. I’m going to confess. I’ll tell Charlie I kept his first note away from you.’

  Kate’s anger had ebbed and flowed throughout this tense tête à tête; hearing Becca’s faltering step-by-step reconstruction had made it possible to understand. To a certain extent. Compassion and fury couldn’t share the same space. This outburst, however, chased away all empathy and shot her through with hot rage. ‘Don’t you dare confess! I forbid it.’

  ‘Or what?’ Becca challenged her.

  ‘Or I’ll tell Charlie he’s not Flo’s father.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ said Becca, slowly.

  Neither do I. ‘Look, me and Charlie aren’t Taylor and Burton. Too much has happened. Charlie’s in love and Lucy’s good for him. I couldn’t live with the storm you’d unleash if you rake up the past. The friendship I have with Charlie is the central one in my life.’ Until this evening, Kate would have added Along with yours. ‘I need him. When you play God you run the risk of demolishing what you meant to repair. As you should know.’ She took a sip of the chocolate. It was perfect. Not too sweet. ‘If you really want to atone, Becca, keep your mouth shut.’ If Kate had to hear from Charlie’s lips that he didn’t want her, it would break her. Again.

  An impatient huff from Becca made Kate bang down the mug. ‘This isn’t the playground, Becca. No more games. I resent being involved with your schemes and I want out. I need clarity. Not wide eyed hopes.’

  ‘And me?’ asked Becca, in a fearful voice. ‘Do you need me?’

  ‘No,’ said Kate. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Happy Christmas.’ Kate looked the newcomer up and down. She shouted over her shoulder. ‘Angus! You didn’t tell me you were letting anybody in this year!’

  ‘Wouldn’t be a party without this lovely lady.’ Angus leaned over Kate and planted a smacker on Becca’s lips.

  In she bounded, heavier than ever, like a healthy animal. Leading with her magnificent breasts, her hair extensions curling to the fake fur over her shoulders, Becca embraced Kate, suffocating her with mingled perfume and conditioner and gel and God knows what else. This was Becca’s fourth automatic invitation to Christmas lunch and she was every bit as star struck as she’d been at her first visit.

  Kate watched her exclaim at the martini she was handed, and yelp her approval of each detail in the room, never relinquishing her host’s arm.

  The ostracism hadn’t panned out.

  Logic and kindness are a formidable team. Kate, who lacked the stamina necessary for feuds, saw Becca in focus at last. All her flaws and dangerous weaknesses, alongside the neediness, the wrong-headedness, the insecurity.

  God knows she’d tried, but Kate could not hate Becca.

  There were rules attached to the amnesty. Otherwise, thought Kate, I’d be a sap. Honesty at all times, no resentments and no amateurish evil, thank you very much.

  The crux of it was Becca’s remorse. It was real. After a week – a very dull week – Kate had called her and they’d negotiated their fresh start. After a long period of (rather exhausting) Best Behaviour, both women were back to their old selves.

  This was Kate’s favourite part of the day.

  The remains of lunch on the table. Wine bottles emptied. Chocolate mint wrappers scattered everywhere. The staff on their way home with humungous tips in their pockets. Just the family.

  Well, just the family and their pet celebs.

  Kilian was asleep on a sofa, looking like a child beneath the blanket Angus laid over him. Over lunch, he’d displayed a bewilderment Kate had seen before in Angus’s circle of luminaries.

  For some, fame was uncomfortable, like a badly cut coat. Struggling to handle this side effect of their career, they retreated emotionally from others, unable to trust. In lieu of friendship they turned to what they could stick up their nose, in their veins or down their throats.

  No such existential nonsense for Rosie, who’d taken to her outlandish life like a natural. Unfettered by self-doubt, confident that her every hackneyed opinion was fascinating, she flirted with
both genders, snapped endless selfies and regaled them all through lunch with the wild flattery of her Instagram followers.

  Becca fanned herself with a napkin from Kate’s Holly and Ivy line. ‘I couldn’t eat another morsel. My appetite has shrunk since I’ve been on this strict diet.’

  ‘But Mummy,’ said Flo, ‘you had thirds.’ At nine, Flo’s one concession to her mother’s love of frippery was a sparkly bow clipped in her hair. Apart from that she was a mini goth, her dark hair and eyes matching, quite naturally, her dark leggings and tunic. Studious, funny, she was prone to leaning on her godmother like an awkward dog, as she was now.

  ‘Hugh!’ snapped Aunty Marjorie, and Uncle Hugh sat upright, shocked out of his sneaky nap.

  ‘I wassenasleep,’ he said, looking around him, sticky eyed.

  ‘That man would sleep through World War Three,’ said Aunty Marjorie, as if her husband’s ability to doze was a moral failing. She covertly handed him the last chocolate truffle and he covertly patted her knee in thanks. Kate saw the undercover affection and wondered what had happened during her mother and her aunt’s upbringing to render them so allergic to open displays of love.

  Beneath the table the real dog, Jaffa, elderly and moth-eaten, stretched out like a well-trodden bath mat. He slept on Flo’s bed, despite his distinctive bouquet. The child’s take on it was Jaffa can’t help it if he stinks.

  At Becca’s side, a cheerful man with a wide black face and beaded dreadlocks that clinked and chimed as he talked, said, ‘I like a woman with meat on her bones!’ Three years of being with Becca hadn’t taught Leon what to say and what not to say in her presence.

  ‘So I’m fat?’ Becca rounded on him. ‘You’re saying I’m fat?’

  Beaming, rubbing his hands, Leon giggled, ‘I’m in for it now!’ in imitation of his own mother’s Ghanaian accent. He liked nothing better than being scolded in front of company.

  ‘Becca, my love,’ said Angus, his jacket missing, his shirt as tossed as an unmade bed. ‘Go easy on Leon.’