by Rebecca Done
‘Gross,’ is all he says, and just like that, I am reminded once again that the dreams we once had really are dead and buried, possibly for good.
Everything has altered so profoundly. And over three years later I still have no idea how to conjure up new dreams for two, when only one of us is truly on board.
11
Molly – present day
The following day Alex calls my mobile while I’m midway through an interview. I let it ring out, rush through my final questions, pocket my mobile and head casually out of the office as if I’m just popping to the toilet.
I call back as I reach the bottom of the stairwell.
‘Alex, it’s me. What’s wrong?’ My voice echoes urgently off the walls.
There is a pause. ‘There was a fire.’
‘What?’ Panic shoots through me. ‘What happened? Are you okay?’
‘Yeah,’ he says flatly. ‘I was cooking.’
Oh fuck. ‘Is the house …?’
He waits for me to finish. Half-sentences no longer work in Alex’s world.
‘Is the house okay? It’s not burned down? Please tell me the house hasn’t burned down …’
There is an excruciating pause during which I picture him turning to check. ‘It’s fine,’ he says eventually, almost languidly. ‘Just caught fire.’
Just caught fire. No biggie.
I am not going to be able to solve this over the phone – I need to be there.
‘Alex, are you safe? Call the fire brigade, call 999, do it now.’
‘I’m in the garden,’ he says. ‘Val’s here.’
Val is our kindly old neighbour who lives in the cottage across the road. ‘Let me speak to her. Pass the phone to Val.’
There is some muffled noise and then Val comes on to the line. ‘No need to panic, dear. I saw the smoke. Nothing a bucket of water couldn’t sort out.’
Am I the only person left in the world to whom a house fire is actually quite a big deal? ‘Okay, just … please could you stay with him, Val – for half an hour or so? I’m coming home now.’
‘There’s really no need,’ she says. ‘We’re drinking bitter lemon in the garden. Lovely.’
This might sound harsh, but with Val in charge it really is a case of the blind leading the blind.
Back upstairs, I head over to Seb’s desk. Predictably, he does that thing people do when they’re complete arseholes, which is wait until they’ve finished typing out the entirety of a very long email before deigning to acknowledge you’re so much as standing there.
‘Yes?’ he says snippily, eventually lifting his head.
‘I’ve got to go. I’ve got … there’s an emergency at home.’
‘An emergency,’ he repeats flatly.
‘Yes. I’ll make the time up, I’ll take it as annual leave … whatever you need.’
‘I don’t think you have any annual leave left,’ he says, like he’d just have to check before being able to confirm that I am, in fact, really starting to take the piss.
‘Then unpaid,’ I gabble, though even the very word sends a shiver through me. ‘I’ll take it unpaid, but I have to go. There’s been a fire at home.’
Because he doesn’t care, Seb doesn’t even blink. ‘What about your interview? That article needs to be filed this afternoon.’
‘I can do it, boss,’ Dave chips in from behind us. Seb really hates it when Dave calls him ‘boss’, because he does it with the driest of sarcasm. ‘The recording’s on the system.’
‘God, thank you,’ I gasp, then turn and flee without looking back.
I discover them in the garden, just as Val said, drinking bitter lemon and stretched out on deckchairs, like day-trippers at the seaside soaking up the sun.
‘Are you okay?’ I gasp, stumbling twice as I leg it through the long grass towards them.
‘No harm done,’ Val nods. She’s short and slight with grey hair but a determined demeanour that I suspect is related to one or both world wars.
‘Thank God. What happened, Alex? What happened to the cooker?’
He shields his eyes against the sun so he can see me, but says nothing. He’s probably trying to recall.
‘The pan caught fire,’ Val supplies.
‘Didn’t you set the timer?’
He sends a look my way. ‘I couldn’t find it.’ The inflection makes his implication clear – this was your fault. One thing I’ve learned with Alex is that there’s always someone else to blame when anything goes wrong, or when he suffers a lapse in concentration.
The sun is hot today; I feel myself starting to wilt. ‘But, Alex –’
‘You’re always nagging me to cook, Molly. You’re always telling me I should cook for you.’
I glance at Val, who’s watching us steadily. ‘Never mind,’ I breathe, turning to face her. ‘Can you show me?’
Alex stays outside while I follow Val into the relative cool of the kitchen, where the cooker, surrounding countertop and cupboards are black. There’s a twisted black lump on the floor with wet towels next to it that I suspect to be the pan. The whole house reeks of smoke, the toxicity of plastic.
I can’t prevent a small voice in my head whispering, How much will this cost to sort out? even though the important thing, of course, is that everyone is safe and unharmed.
‘What happened?’ I ask her.
‘Well, I saw the smoke. So I came in and we tackled it together.’
‘Val, you shouldn’t have done that – I’d never have been able to live with myself if …’ I exhale sharply. ‘You should have called the fire brigade.’
‘Oh, it wasn’t serious,’ she informs me matter-of-factly. ‘I’ve worked in pub kitchens since I was sixteen – I’ve been putting out pan fires all my working life. And I was born in the Blitz, dear.’
I smile. Despite her strict voice, she has such a kind face. ‘What was he cooking?’
‘Meat, I think – frying it. Seems he walked off halfway through and forgot about it.’
‘He doesn’t have a sense of smell any more,’ I remind her. ‘Didn’t the smoke alarm go off?’
‘I had a look at it. Battery’s dead, my dear.’
I lower my head in shame. ‘God.’
‘You can get them wired in, you know.’
‘I know, but … the whole house needs rewiring,’ I confess. ‘I’ve been putting it off.’
‘Bit of a mess, isn’t it?’
I survey the blackened wreckage of our kitchen. Mess is a tactful way of putting it. ‘I’ll sort it.’
‘No, I meant the cottage in general, dear. Weren’t you going to do it up?’
I wonder if she’s got sick of looking at our eyesore renovation project from her chocolate-box cottage across the road, at our overgrown plot that looks like a waste ground. ‘Well, we were.’
‘Are you coping?’ she asks me then, which is all it takes to bring the tears to my eyes. I bite into my lip to try and stem the flow but then Val puts her arms round me, so I finally break down because I can’t hold it in any longer.
‘I’m sorry,’ I sniff eventually, pulling away and wiping my eyes. ‘I feel so bad you had to sort that fire out.’
‘My Don had dementia,’ she says softly after a pause.
I nod. I never met her husband, who died many years ago. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’
‘He was never the same,’ she tells me. ‘After it came on. It was like living with a stranger.’
‘That’s exactly what it’s like,’ I mumble.
‘It was very hard work. Every day, just when I thought I was getting used to his new little quirks – that we were making progress – we’d hit another hurdle.’
I smile in sorrowful recognition. ‘Yup.’
‘Be kind to yourself, dear. But most importantly, don’t lose sight of who you are. If your Alex is lost, you mustn’t get lost as well.’
I swallow. ‘How did you get through it?’ I ask her, hoping as I sometimes do that someone will be able to offer me that one litt
le pearl of wisdom that will suddenly make everything easy. This is how you do it. Here’s the secret you’ve been waiting for, Molly. And then everything will slot into place, my days will get easier, I will feel more hope than I do despair.
She grasps my hands between hers and looks me right in the eyes. ‘Love is all you need.’
Now I really do break down. I sink to my knees right there in the middle of the kitchen and cover my face, finally allow myself to have a proper sob, because I know if Alex was me – if the situation was reversed – he’d never give up on me.
Later, back outside, Val says goodbye to Alex. ‘Call me if you need anything, young man.’
‘Thanks for the lemonade,’ Alex says, completely unprompted, which surprises me. I suppose he means he appreciates the sugar hit, since I know he can’t taste the lemons.
‘You’re most welcome.’ Val smiles firstly at him and then me. ‘My Don used to do the same thing, with coffee.’
I frown. ‘Do what?’
She gives me a knowing wink. ‘Make it with cold water from the tap.’
I exhale. ‘Right. Sorry.’
‘No need to apologize. It’s an easy enough mistake.’
Is it? Maybe she’s right – maybe it’s just the sort of thing I’d do myself if I was tired, or stressed, as Alex must have been earlier.
‘Anyway, you had some lemons in the fridge. Thought I’d use them before they expired. I hope you don’t mind, dear.’
‘Of course not.’ Inspired by my mum’s baking, I had been intending to make lemon madeleines – intend being the operative word, as always. ‘It was very kind of you.’
Classic wartime mentality: someone makes you a cold coffee, you come right back at them with homemade lemonade.
Val’s already heading off. ‘See you soon.’
I sit down next to Alex, but I don’t know what to say. If I admonish him for forgetting the timer, it’ll start a fight. But if I say nothing, he might assume it doesn’t matter.
The sun has momentarily dipped behind a cloud, and Alex rubs his bare arms. For some reason this makes me recall his jacket, still buried deep in a London wardrobe.
‘I’ll get new batteries for the smoke alarm,’ I say, once we’re back in the relative safety of the living room, though I’m not sure what I’m going to do about the smell in here. It makes me shudder, the idea that the whole cottage might have gone up in smoke, this family home that was left to Alex, all its associated memories destroyed by flames.
‘Yeah, all right,’ he says, then stands up.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Golf,’ he says, like nothing’s even happened and a brush with death is pretty standard.
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Who with?’
He takes a moment to recall. ‘Charlie.’
‘Okay. Have fun.’
‘She reminds me of Mum,’ Alex says then, looking down at me with those gorgeous green eyes of his. They still get me, those eyes. They always will.
I swallow. ‘Who does?’
‘That woman.’
‘Val?’
‘Yeah. Val.’
‘Why does she remind you of your mum?’ I can’t imagine Alex’s mum would have borne much resemblance to Val when she was alive.
He pauses. ‘She’s kind.’
My heart swells, and I glance at the photograph on the mantelpiece of a laughing Kevin and his happy little boy, the photograph that upsets Graeme so much. I am sure the photographer was Alex’s mother, though Kevin never confirmed it. I wonder what she was thinking as she pressed the button on the camera – where they were, what they were doing. Before everything went horribly wrong.
‘Don’t forget your wallet and mobile,’ I say as Alex turns to head off, my autopilot reminder if he goes anywhere or does anything. I’m like a walking, talking smartphone.
He shoots me a look over his shoulder that says, Don’t treat me like a baby. His eyes can darken suddenly like that – the same eyes that were brimming with love during our wedding vows, now blunt when they regard me. I want to shake him, scream at him, You do love me – remember our wedding? You do love me!
But Alex is now a man who would scream back. So just like always, I direct my gaze towards the floor and wait for him to leave.
After he’s gone I head back out into the garden to catch my breath, taking a moment to stare out at the woodland topping the hill. The sun has emerged from behind the clouds again; swifts are screeching as they dip up and down, skimming low over the wheat field.
And then I get my phone out, dial Graeme.
‘Hello,’ he says. There is noise in the background, music, like he’s in a shop.
‘Hey,’ I say.
‘Perfect timing, Moll. What do girls like for their birthday? I’ve got one of those posh parties tonight. You know, the ones where the presents are more like upscale raffle prizes. Helicopter ride for two, that kind of thing.’
Ah, birthdays – another small indulgence of romance I kissed goodbye to after Alex’s accident. These days he either forgets, buys me something bizarre like a spatula or a hand towel, or gives me a gift I know for a fact has been purchased on his behalf by Eve or Graeme. Gone are the days of breakfast in bed, red velvet cake from my favourite London patisserie, thoughtful little gifts he’s had up his sleeve for months.
‘Er …’ I hesitate. ‘Sorry, I’m not really up on what the helicopter set get each other for their birthdays.’ The circles Graeme finds himself mixing in never fail to amaze me.
‘Well, give me a clue then. Anything. I’m completely lost.’
‘In terms of …?’
‘You know. Categories.’
‘Categories?’
‘Of gift,’ he attempts and fails to clarify. ‘Like – jewellery? Flowers? Food?’
‘Food?’
‘Well, I suppose I mean chocolates. Or something. Biscuits maybe.’
‘Is she …?’
‘Just a friend,’ he says quickly.
With gift ideas like biscuits maybe, she’s lucky she’s only a friend, but I can’t bring myself to focus on Graeme’s anonymous lady friend’s birthday right now. ‘Actually, Gray, I was just calling to say … just to let you know that there’s been a bit of an accident, but Alex is fine. There’s nothing to worry about.’
‘What?’
‘A fire, a fire,’ I clarify at once, realizing the word accident is ill-advised. We all live in fear of a secondary head injury, the looming spectre of Alex becoming incapacitated for life.
‘Is he okay?’
‘Yes, he’s fine,’ I say quickly. ‘Sorry. Don’t panic. He was just … cooking and it went a bit wrong, that’s all. I just thought I should let you know. You said to call if anything …’
‘Of course, of course. How wrong did it go?’ We all know there are degrees of wrong with Alex.
My head is starting to pound slightly in the heat. ‘He walked off halfway through. Luckily Val saw the smoke.’
‘What about the smoke alarm?’
I hesitate. ‘Out of batteries. Sorry,’ I confess.
‘No, no,’ he says. ‘Don’t apologize. You can’t be expected to think of everything. Where is he now?’
‘Gone to play golf with Charlie.’ I sigh. ‘The cooker’s dead. Not that it was particularly great before, but …’
‘How bad’s the damage?’
‘Hard to say at the moment. I need to get at it with a scrubbing brush.’
‘I’ll come up,’ he says. ‘I’ll come and help.’
‘No, Graeme,’ I say quickly. ‘I don’t want you to, honestly.’
‘But, Moll …’
‘You’ve got your party,’ I say, and it comes out like I’m bitter but I’m being genuine. The one thing I could actually do with right now is some time to myself. ‘That wasn’t why I called. I just … wanted to let you know.’ Aside from anything else, as joint owner of the cottage, I felt like Graeme should be aware, at least.
There’s a pause. ‘Are you supp
osed to be at work right now?’
I wince as I recall Seb’s face earlier. ‘Yep. I panicked and walked out. Dave said he’d pick up my work so I just … left.’
‘Please let me come up and help, Molly.’
‘No,’ I say firmly. ‘We’ll be okay. I’m just making a drama out of a crisis as usual.’
‘I’ll call someone,’ he says. ‘I’ll pay someone to come in and sort it all out for you.’
I swallow. I’m sure Graeme can’t afford that any more than I can, and the whole thing is my fault. The least I can do is take the financial hit, though I’m not exactly sure how right now.
‘It’s my responsibility too,’ he says, like he’s reading my mind.
Yes, your name is on the title deeds, I think to myself, but it’s not as if you ever get the benefit of that. It’s just a piece of paper. Not for the first time, I wonder if I really should be paying him some rent, but how I’d afford it I still don’t know.
‘I don’t think it’s too bad,’ I say. ‘I’ll shout if I need extra help. Promise.’
‘I’m glad you phoned, Molly,’ he says then. ‘You can call me any time.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I’m always here for you, you know. Whatever time of day or night.’
After I hang up I think to myself, Why did I call Graeme? What exactly did I want from him?
I wanted to hear his voice, I realize suddenly. Talking to him always makes me feel … better, somehow. Comforted. The notion is new and startling, because it seems a strange thing to be thinking about my brother-in-law. I push it uncomfortably from my mind.
As I take to the charred kitchen with a scrubbing brush and bucket, I begin catastrophizing, even though I’m always reminding Alex not to do exactly that. What if Val hadn’t been in? What if she hadn’t spotted the smoke? What if Alex had gone upstairs when he abandoned his cooking, and only worked out what was happening when it was far too late?
And then, as I’m reaching over to the sink to rinse my brush and change the water in the bucket, I see it – balanced on the countertop, a recipe book. The open page is blackened, but I can just make out what it’s for. Fillet steak fettucine. The first meal Alex ever cooked for me.