A Song for Tomorrow

by Alice Peterson

  She stops, looks ashamed, almost as if it’s her fault. ‘But last night . . .’

  I nod, encouraging her to go on.

  ‘He was worse. He came home later than usual.’ She stops, takes a sip of the strong sugary tea I made her earlier in their kitchen. ‘He told me he’d slept with someone else, as if he was . . . proud of it. He said I owed it to him.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I didn’t dare say very much. I was scared. I just wanted him to leave Bond and me alone.’ She shivers. ‘So I said that, I told him to leave me alone and he . . .’ She looks at me as if she can’t say it. ‘He kicked Bond.’

  I reach to stroke him, his eyes as fearful as Susie’s as he lies curled up beside her.

  ‘I pleaded with him to stop,’ Susie continues. ‘I thought he was going to kill him, so when I screamed and shouted . . .’ She rolls up her sleeve, revealing bruising on her upper arm. ‘. . . He yanked me out of bed and shoved me against the wall, told me what did I expect? Why shouldn’t he sleep with someone else when I was so useless to him, that he was just bankrolling me . . .’ She dissolves into tears again.

  I don’t need to hear any more. ‘When is he back?’

  ‘After lunch . . . He’s only doing a morning shift.’

  I look at my watch. It’s eleven ten. ‘Right. We have less than two hours to get your stuff packed and to get you and Bond out of here.’ I reach for my mobile, dial Milly’s number.

  ‘What are you doing, Alice? We can’t go, I can’t go.’

  ‘What’s happening?’ Milly asks when she picks up.

  ‘Can you get to Susie’s place as soon as you can?’

  Milly doesn’t ask any questions. She knows it’s urgent.

  After I hang up I clutch Susie’s hand again. ‘You can’t stay here.’

  ‘He’ll find me.’ She edges away, withdrawing her hand. ‘He hasn’t hurt me before, Alice.’ She watches me toss clothes on to her bed. ‘Where will I go?’

  ‘We’ll work it out,’ I insist. ‘I just need to know you’re with me on this.’

  She looks unsure if she can say goodbye to her old life that quickly, however awful it has become and however unhappy it has been for many years.

  ‘Susie?’

  Slowly she nods.

  My mobile rings again. It’s Tom. I don’t have time to answer. There’s no time to explain . . . He’s going to have to trust me on this one . . .

  When Milly arrives she finds both Susie and me shoving clothes, shoes, work files, towels and makeup into bags and suitcases. ‘Make a start on the kitchen,’ I order, ‘all her drugs and whatever looks like Susie’s and we’ll carry on in here. We’ve got thirty minutes max,’ I call out before Susie’s mobile rings. ‘It’s him,’ she mutters.

  ‘Don’t answer,’ I say.

  He leaves her a voicemail message. ‘He’s on his way home now,’ she says, fear returning in her eyes.

  ‘Right now?’

  I must have shouted since Milly rushes back into the bedroom.

  ‘He says he’s sorry,’ Susie tells me, almost as if that’s a good enough reason for her to stay.

  Milly shakes her head. ‘He always says that.’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’ She’s now avoiding eye contact with me. She looks at the cases, clearly torn.

  We don’t have time for this, for indecision . . . but I can’t force her out . . . she’ll only come back . . .

  ‘I’m not as strong as you, Alice,’ Susie says.

  I kneel down beside her, my heart racing at the thought of him coming home in minutes, not hours. ‘I wouldn’t be strong if it wasn’t for my family, my friends, for you.’

  ‘I don’t have my mum or—’

  ‘But you have people who love you,’ Milly backs me up, kneeling down beside us. ‘Don’t you believe you deserve more than this?’ I ask her.

  She’s playing with time that we don’t have.

  ‘Yes,’ she says finally, ‘yes I do.’

  Milly and I load my car with luggage. Susie didn’t care so much about her stuff, only that we packed everything for Bond, including his blankets, basket and beanbag, bowls, food, treats and lead. ‘He has a summer and a winter coat,’ I’d said, before we all laughed for the first time that day. We don’t have time to pack everything. We’ve got to get out.

  ‘My file!’ Susie says.

  I turn round to her. ‘What file? Can you do without it?’

  ‘My concertina one. It has my bank details, passport, spare cash . . .’

  I hesitate. Ethan is going to be back any minute now . . . any second now . . .

  ‘I’ll get it,’ Susie offers, unbuckling her seatbelt. ‘I know exactly where it is.’

  But I take the keys from her, asking her to tell me precisely where to find it before Milly asks if I want her to come in with me. ‘Stay with Susie,’ I say. ‘Keep a watch out for Ethan.’

  Inside the flat I head into the sitting room.

  It’s in the corner, under the desk, opposite the television . . . there it is . . .

  I grab the file and am about to turn round when I hear heavy footsteps outside and then someone unlocking the front door. I dart behind the sofa.

  ‘Susie!’ he calls out. ‘You home? Where are you? We need to talk! Susie?’ I hear what sounds like wardrobe doors being opened and shut. Clearly he must be in their empty bedroom. My heart is pounding. I feel sick. I’m going to cough. I can’t cough . . . He is pacing the corridor now. ‘Susie!’ he’s shouting. He must be calling her on the mobile. ‘Where the fuck are you? Where’s all your stuff?’ Part of me wants to go out there and confront him but the other part knows I am weaker than he is. I won’t win this fight. I know now what he’s capable of.

  How did he not see Susie and Milly outside? Of course, Ethan wouldn’t recognise my car; he’s never seen it. What if Susie and Milly saw him? What if they decide to come in . . .? I pray they have the sense to stay put.

  I hear his footsteps coming into the sitting room. I am holding my breath, desperate not to move an inch or make a sound. He walks away and soon I can hear the loo flushing. Their bathroom is at the other end of the flat, close to the kitchen. Now is my only chance to escape. I make a run for it, the sitting room thankfully opposite the front door. When I grab the handle, he calls, ‘Susie . . .? Susie! Come back!’

  I am running down those stairs at an Olympian speed I never knew I possessed, adrenalin helping me to fling open the front door, rush across the road, get inside my car, lock the doors again and turn on the engine, Susie and Bond hiding on the backseat, Milly urging me to hurry, he’s coming . . .

  Ethan is running towards us, but he’s too late. We’re in the car. We are safe. He’s shouting at Susie, she’s holding her hands over her ears. I wind down the window just enough so he can hear me say, ‘Don’t ever hurt my friend again.’

  He slams a hand on the bonnet but all he can do is watch as I drive away, my heart in my mouth.

  36

  That evening Jake and Lucy, Tom, Cat, and the anti support group sit around the kitchen table, as if it were a boardroom meeting. My parents are in the kitchen, listening, as Mum cooks pasta for us all. I know she’s been talking to Dad about my insane day. Jake, Mum and Dad had pulled me aside earlier to say that what I did was admirable but never to do it again. ‘You could have been seriously hurt,’ Dad had said. ‘Ethan is a matter for the police, not for you.’

  Bond sits on Susie’s lap as if he were the company mascot. Mum drove him to the vet to have him checked over and thankfully the only damage, though bad enough, was nasty bruising. Susie was brave enough to call Ethan to tell him it was over and that she would send him back the keys, along with her share of the rent. Between us all we can come up with the cash to pay him off. She wouldn’t press charges on the proviso that he promised to stay away. None of us could change her mind on that one.

  I glance at Tom. We haven’t spoken much since I arrived home to find him waiting for me. I hadn’t reali
sed that after our telephone call in the morning he had cycled straight from the office back to my place, where he and Mum had waited impatiently for me to come home. Jake and Lucy offer to have Susie to stay but Jake warns her, ‘The house is a building site, dust everywhere.’

  ‘Why don’t you live with me temporarily?’ Cat suggests. ‘Ethan has no idea who I am or where I live.’

  I turn to Susie and Bond. ‘You’d feel safe there.’

  ‘I can sleep on the sofa bed,’ Cat continues.

  Before Susie can say she can’t afford it, ‘I can help,’ Milly offers. ‘I have no rent to pay living at home, and I’m earning . . .’

  ‘You’re saving up for your own place,’ Susie reminds her.

  ‘This is more important,’ Milly argues.

  I glance at Susie, knowing she doesn’t want to feel like a charity case. I touch her arm. ‘We will all help. Right now, the only thing you need to do is get better so you can enjoy your course and go back to work. Let us worry about everything else.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ she replies.

  ‘Just say yes,’ I suggest.

  ‘Thank you, everyone,’ she says on the verge of tears. ‘Bondy, we have a new home.’

  37

  Tom

  Tom thinks about what Alice did for Susie today and doesn’t know whether to hug her with pride or lecture her about all the things that could have gone horribly wrong. He has to talk to her alone, to clear the air, especially after their argument this morning. When he sits down on the sofa in her bedroom, Alice collapses beside him, a heap of exhaustion.

  ‘About this morning . . .’ he says, ‘I’m sorry—’

  ‘No, I’m sorry,’ Alice is quick to interrupt. ‘I shouldn’t have made you stay. I know it gets intense sometimes.’

  ‘When you called me from Ethan’s I was so angry with you for diving in . . .’

  Alice nods.

  ‘All I could think about was you crashing your car, getting beaten up, that this man could seriously hurt you for interfering. You had a lucky escape, Alice.’

  ‘I had Milly. Plus I’ve been doing some body building lately, haven’t you noticed?’

  ‘Alice, you’re insane.’

  But at last he smiles.

  ‘If Ethan ever turns up here,’ he says, ‘promise me you won’t try and sort it out on your own . . .’

  ‘I promise, but I had no time to think,’ she reminds him. ‘Do as you would be done by, Tom. Susie would have helped me. I had to help her.’ The way she says that makes him fall in love with her all over again.

  Later that evening, when everyone has gone home except for Susie and Bond, who are sleeping in the spare room, ‘Go,’ Alice says to him. ‘Get a decent night’s sleep. You need it.’

  There is no frustration in her voice anymore.

  He wishes he didn’t feel as if his work competes with being with her. She’s right. Their relationship can be intense at times, there are moments when he longs for more space and is frustrated by her restrictions. Alice can’t sleep at his place: she needs to be close to all the machines that keep her well; her fridge, her boxes of meds, her guitar and keyboard. But that’s not Alice’s fault.

  He pulls her towards him, sensing she won’t want to be on her own tonight. And besides, this is his home. ‘May I stay?’ he asks, not wanting to be alone either.

  In bed, he wraps an arm around her waist. ‘If I’m ever in trouble, funny feet,’ he says in the darkness, ‘I’ll know who to call.’

  38

  Alice

  It’s early summer and everyone is glued to watching Tim Henman play nail-biting matches at Wimbledon, commentators claiming 2001 is his year. It’s been three months since Susie left Ethan, and she and Bond are now living with her father in Acton, West London. Cat was wonderful, having her to stay for a month, but Susie decided she couldn’t lean on her indefinitely for support. Besides, her dad had wanted to help, even if her stepmum insisted that she was allergic to Bond. She has changed her mobile number and day by day I see a small change in her, although it’s going to take some time until what little confidence she had before returns.

  I’m at the studio with Pete, trying to record one of my new songs, ‘Breathe Tonight’. Since our first rejection, we’ve had nothing but more nos over the past few months, A&R guys saying ‘We love her sound, but . . .’ or ‘She’s got a unique voice, but . . .’

  I hate the word ‘but’ almost as much as I hate ‘fine’ or ‘brave’.

  But I can’t give up.

  I want success so badly, but I also want it for Pete.

  I look at him through the screen, sitting at his desk before he presses the red button, signals with his fingers three . . . two . . . one . . .

  I sing.

  Pete raises a hand. ‘Again. Sit down if you’re knackered.’

  It’s stiflingly hot and I’ve been cooped up in here for the past three hours but I continue to ignore the stool behind me. Compose myself. Watch Pete. Three . . . two . . . one . . .

  As I sing I feel everything in my chest moving, obstructing . . . it feels like roadworks clogging up a motorway when all I want to do is drive, be free . . . I stop, knowing it’s not good enough. I need to breathe. Cough.

  ‘That was shit, Alice,’ he says, leaving the studio, slamming the door behind him.

  I take off my headphones and flop down on the stool, just as despondent as Pete. I feel my glands. A fortnight ago I went to see an ENT surgeon who said I have these nodules, which aren’t related to my CF but to my singing. Instead of having two straight, smooth vocal cords the edges of mine have two little bumps on them. ‘It shouldn’t be painful,’ he’d said, ‘but that’s why it feels tender. They’re like bruises on your vocal cords.’ He then announced I was in luck. My nodules were soft and in an early stage of their formation so therefore could be treated with voice rest. He went on to say that the discomfort was probably due to strain in the muscles of the voice box rather than the nodules themselves. With time they’d heal.

  ‘You know what he said,’ Tom had argued with me this morning: ‘That if they get worse, they have to be removed surgically. You need to give your voice a rest.’

  ‘I don’t have time to do that,’ I’d snapped back, wishing I hadn’t been so harsh, but tired of everyone constantly telling me what to do. They don’t understand. Pete and I have already taken longer than most artists to get to where we are, I can’t miss any more days with him because of ‘nodules’.

  Nothing is working right now. I am milk that’s off: sour. The way Pete had looked at me earlier, it was as if he’d just had a taste and spat it out.

  When he returns with two coffees I sit down on the sofa opposite him. ‘I’ll get us some lunch too,’ he says, handing me my cup. ‘What do you feel like?’

  ‘Depends how far you’re willing to go?’

  He grins, finally the tension easing. ‘Don’t push your luck.’

  ‘God, it’s hot. This place is like a sauna.’

  ‘Let’s get out of here then.’

  ‘And go where?’

  ‘Anywhere we can think straight.’

  Pete slots Alanis Morrisette into my car’s cassette machine. I wind down the window.

  ‘There’s no rush,’ he says as I put my foot down, his knuckles turning white.

  ‘Scared?’

  ‘Only fearing for my life.’

  I indicate left. ‘This was your idea,’ I remind him when he makes the sign of the cross over his chest.

  ‘Yeah, a nice relaxing drive. Why do you have to go at breakneck speed?’

  Because it’s the only place I can be fast.

  ‘So come on, what’s going on?’ Pete stares ahead.

  ‘Going on?’

  ‘With you.’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Are you feeling rough? Am I pushing you too hard?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There are days when I doubt I should even be letting you sing at all because I don’t w
ant to wreck what little lung function you have.’

  ‘Pete, I promise I’d say if it was too much.’ It will never be too much.

  ‘How’s everything going with Tom?’

  ‘Fine,’ I say, caught off guard, ‘I think.’

  ‘You think? Sorry if I’m treading over the line, but if there’s something going on, you can talk to me.’

  Things are better between us but that doesn’t mean we don’t argue.

  I see a white van. I think I have just enough time to overtake . . .

  ‘Watch out!’ Pete clenches his fist.

  When he feels safe to breathe again, he says, ‘So nothing’s going on?’

  I can’t tell him about the nodules. He’ll be yet another person who will tell me to rest.

  My best tactic is to change the subject.

  ‘What exactly happened in the States?’ I dare to ask.

  He looks at me, as if unsure whether or not he wants to confide. ‘Everything was at my fingertips,’ he admits finally. ‘Sex, drink, drugs, cash, beautiful women. I was young and did the classic thing. I went off the rails. Ironic, really. I’d always wanted Dad to visit me in America, be a part of my life and be proud. Instead he flies out to bring his messed-up son home.’

  ‘He must be proud now,’ I say, touched by his vulnerability.

  ‘Katie helped,’ he confesses. ‘She works in rehab. What a cliché we are, a patient falling in love with his nurse.’

  I consider this. ‘I love Professor Taylor, except when he tells me I have to be admitted into hospital.’ He is probably the only person I daren’t listen to.

  ‘You know that photo in Cornwall? The beach?’ He’s referring to the one on his desk that I noticed the very first time we met.