by Rebecca Done
I smile softly. ‘That’s what Eve’s been telling me to have.’
He leans back against the worktop as we wait for the kettle to boil. It’s rattling and whistling, like it’s working really hard. ‘And do you?’
I swallow, look down at the floor, say nothing.
‘Is that why you’re here? Is that what meeting Sarah tonight’s all about?’ Graeme’s question is carefully phrased, his tone neutral. I told him about tonight’s party on the phone earlier. ‘Have you told her what happened?’
‘No,’ I say quickly, but still I don’t meet his eye. ‘It’s just a leaving do, an old colleague. Sarah just … wanted me to come because I worked with her for a long time. She’s a good friend.’
The kettle rumbles and shakes as it reaches boiling point, and Graeme turns to fill the cups. ‘Builder’s, right?’
‘Thanks. Two sugars.’
‘Don’t blame you. Hang on, Mike stashed some biscuits somewhere in here.’ He opens and shuts cupboard doors before eventually finding them, tearing open the packet and upending the lot on to a cracked plate, passing it to me. ‘Get stuck into those. I’ll bring these through – living room’s on the right.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, taking the plate and heading next door into the living room. It’s tiny and airless, as dark as the rest of the flat, and the place stinks of fags. My instinct is to open a window, but aware of being a guest, I sit down on the throw-covered sofa instead and inhale a couple of chocolate-chip cookies, appreciating the sugar hit.
Graeme comes through a few moments later and passes me my tea. The tiny sofa’s the only place to sit in here, so instead he settles on the floor, his back against the wall opposite, and smiles.
‘Thank you,’ I say.
‘For what?’
‘Being here.’
He nods and takes a sip of tea. ‘So what are you going to say to the others? About your face? I have to admit, I’m kind of surprised you still want to go.’
‘You don’t think I should?’ I frown.
‘No, I didn’t mean that. It’s just … well, they’ll jump to a certain conclusion, won’t they?’
‘I’ll tell them it was an accident.’
Graeme laughs lightly. ‘You don’t have to tell them that, Moll. It wasn’t an accident.’
‘No, but it wasn’t exactly Alex’s fault, either.’
‘That’s up for debate.’
‘No, it’s not,’ I insist.
Graeme pauses. ‘So, what were you fighting about?’
I sigh, loath to even say her name. ‘Nicola.’
‘Nicola? What about her?’
‘She …’ I lower my cup, shake my head. ‘Tom saw her and Alex having lunch on Thursday. He said they were being very flirty. And Tom’s not …’
‘… one for drama,’ Graeme supplies, for he knows Tom well.
‘Exactly. I mean, when it comes from Tom you know it’s legit, at least.’
There is a short pause. ‘I’m sorry, Moll.’
‘You think he’s capable of it? Having …’ I swallow. ‘… an affair?’
‘No, not necessarily. I just meant – you know. It’s a hard thing to hear, whatever the context. That your husband’s …’ He trails off, but I don’t mind him not finishing the sentence.
‘Well, anyway. I was furious, and … I thought, after everything we’ve been through …’ I can feel myself starting to get choked up again, but I don’t want to cry in front of Graeme. I’m not sure why exactly, but I’ve always tried to remain strong when I’m around him. Maybe because I want him as my brother-in-law to think I’m capable, that I’m in control, that as long as I’m Alex’s wife, he’ll always be okay.
‘You lost it,’ Graeme guesses simply.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, scrunching up my face to stem the tears, which sends a shot of pain riveting through my left eye. Involuntarily, I wince, suck in a sharp but silent breath.
‘Don’t apologize. It’s not a criticism. Who wouldn’t lose it, in your position?’
‘I still don’t know what to think. I mean, I’ve seen them flirting before, and I know she hangs around him all the time, and then I got home and he was reading this gym magazine …’ I shake my head, spitting out the words like I caught him reading porn.
Graeme snorts. ‘What, like – bodybuilding?’
‘Yeah – one of those “Get a six-pack in your lunch break” jobbies.’
‘Ha.’
‘I mean, honestly. I thought to myself, how can she have this effect on him that I can’t? What is it about her?’
‘Nothing,’ he says calmly. ‘She just tells Alex what he wants to hear. It’s classic – he’s vulnerable, she’s manipulative. It’s nothing more than that.’
‘But it’s my job to protect him, isn’t it? From people like that?’
‘Yes, but the problem is he’s not a child, Moll. He’s a strange hybrid now, isn’t he? We’ve said this before. He behaves like a kid a lot of the time, but he’s also an adult with free will. It’s impossible to protect him from everything. He still has autonomy, and rightly so.’
I snaffle another biscuit from the plate, stuff it into my mouth.
‘Look, we’ve always said we’ll do everything we can, try our best, put all the mechanisms and support in place, but at the end of the day … he still has to live.’
‘But that’s just the point, isn’t it?’ I say miserably. ‘I didn’t try my best last night. I completely flew off the handle, and what’s worse is …’ I shake my head.
‘What’s worse is what?’ Graeme asks me, and I feel his eyes trained on my face. From beyond the window, the traffic rushes past like rainfall.
‘What’s worse is, I sort of wanted to lose it. I planned it, almost. I was so angry I said to myself – I want him to feel some of what he puts me through.’ I look over at Graeme. ‘That’s a horrible thing to confess, isn’t it?’
‘I think that’s a completely human thing to confess, Moll.’
I sigh. ‘Well, thank you. You’re always too nice to me.’
I hear Graeme swallow from where I’m sitting, but when I look over to him he’s staring down into his cup of tea.
It occurs to me then that the room is darkening, that it’s getting late. I clear my throat. ‘Do you have a bag of peas? I need to try and get this swelling down a bit before I go out.’
He smiles. ‘Peas?’
‘Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of the frozen-pea thing?’
‘No, no, I have. I was just smiling at the idea of you thinking we might be organized enough to have either a functioning freezer or things to put in it. Particularly vegetables.’
I smile back. ‘Ah.’
‘Sorry. I’m a bit of a useless host, I’m afraid.’
‘Not at all,’ I say, raising my cup. ‘Builder’s and biscuits. What more could I want?’
‘Oh, I meant to say. You can have my bed tonight. I’ll kip in here.’
‘On this?’ I say, glancing down at the sofa I’m sitting on. ‘It’s barely long enough for half of you.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t subject either you or me to Mike’s room. He’s away for the weekend but it’s actually a classified health hazard. Part of the reason we’re being kicked out.’
‘So you are,’ I say gently. ‘Being kicked out.’
‘Well, Mike is,’ he admits. ‘I was never really here. Officially speaking.’
‘So where are you going to go?’
There is a pause, during which Graeme checks his watch. ‘You should get ready, Moll. Don’t want you to miss your party.’
‘Well, hang on,’ I say. ‘Why don’t you come with me?’
Sarah double-takes when we approach her in the bar. ‘Molly, what happened to you?’
‘Walked into a door frame,’ I lie easily.
Sarah glances at Graeme, hesitates for a moment, then puts a hand to her chest. ‘Stupid me. I thought you were Alex, for a moment!’
‘The next best thing,’ Graeme
smiles.
I noticed before we left the flat that he’d applied an aftershave Alex used to love. It completely threw me – taking me instantly back to days gone by as smell so often does. Every now and then I catch the scent of it, and I am forced to remind myself it’s not my husband by my side.
‘Sarah, you remember Graeme? Alex’s twin.’ They’ve met a handful of times on nights out.
‘Yes, of course.’ She shakes his extended hand. ‘But, Moll – seriously, what happened?’
‘I was just being clumsy. Didn’t look where I was going,’ I say, my voice partly dampened by the music.
Sarah’s face clouds with doubt, and she looks from Graeme to me and then back to Graeme again, searching our neutral expressions for clues. ‘It’s true,’ Graeme says. ‘I saw her do it.’
‘Ok-ay,’ she says uncertainly.
Feeling horrible lying to Sarah, I look down at my feet.
‘Oh, you look gorgeous anyway,’ she says, her tone brightening slightly artificially in a way that tells me we’ll be revisiting this topic later. ‘The only girl I know who can carry off a black eye quite so elegantly.’
‘Ha, thanks,’ I say, straightening my dress. It’s black silk, a little too short, and my heels are the super-high ones that I struggle to walk in, if I’m honest. I left the house in such a rush last night that I wasn’t thinking at all when I packed, just threw a handful of clothes, make-up and accessories that I thought might make me look halfway presentable into a bag.
‘Right,’ Sarah says. ‘Drinks?’
‘Is that the queue?’ Graeme says, nodding over at the packed bar.
‘Um, yes,’ Sarah says, like Graeme’s being a bit rude.
‘Sod that. Wait there.’
‘Graeme, where are you going?’
‘I know a guy. He can get us into VIP. How big’s your party?’ he asks Sarah.
‘Er, fifteen. Twenty, maybe.’
‘Graeme, it’s Saturday night,’ I remind him.
‘Yeah, and I know a guy. Wait there, don’t queue for drinks. I’ll be two seconds.’ And then he vanishes.
‘God, he’s a bit smooth, isn’t he?’ Sarah says, turning to me, and I’m not sure if she means it as a compliment. ‘I’d forgotten.’
‘Very different to Alex,’ is all I can think of to say. ‘You look lovely too, by the way.’
Sarah’s showing off her incredible figure in a cream sleeveless dress and the kind of heels I crave to be able to balance in. Her blonde hair is styled into a quiff ponytail, and she has a talent with liquid eyeliner that demands a superhumanly steady hand.
‘Thanks, darling. Have you seen Libby yet?’
Libby is my ex-colleague who’s swapping London for Singapore. She’s getting a relocation, an apartment with a pool and a huge salary hike, and the entire leaving party is consequently rippling with envy. I shake my head. ‘I’ll say hello when she’s finished with Paula.’
‘Yep, not much has changed in two years, Moll. She still never pauses for breath.’
Graeme returns then, smiling. ‘Head this way, ladies.’
I follow Graeme while Sarah rounds up the group, and we make our way upstairs to the mezzanine VIP area, where four tables are waiting for us.
‘How the hell did you pull this off?’ I smile at Graeme.
‘I told you, I know a guy.’
‘Hold on, hold on. There must be minimum spend, or something,’ Sarah interjects.
‘Relax,’ Graeme says. ‘It’s just the seats and table service. Trust me, you’ll have a better time.’
‘Well,’ Sarah says eventually, a bit awkwardly, ‘thank you.’
‘You’re welcome,’ Graeme tells her, before turning to me. ‘Just going to mingle for a bit. See you later.’
‘You’re not leaving …?’ I say, feeling inexplicably alarmed.
‘No, of course not.’ He squeezes my arm. ‘Won’t be long.’
I sit down with Sarah and two Aperol Spritzes. More of my ex-colleagues gradually find their way upstairs, all making anxious enquiries as to the state of my face and asking concernedly after Alex. They come in waves, but Sarah successfully deflects most of the awkward questions on my behalf, for which I am grateful.
‘So,’ she finally says, by which time our glasses are almost empty, ‘I’ll be advertising Libby’s job soon. Unless you know of anyone …?’
I clear my throat, set down my drink. Do I dare show even casual interest? Could it start something I can’t then stop? ‘I might,’ I say, my voice quiet against the background music.
But Sarah hears me perfectly clearly, and her whole face lifts. ‘Moll, are you serious?’
‘Might,’ I repeat.
She nods. ‘Does this have anything to do with your face?’
I look down at my knees. ‘A bit.’
Sarah nods. ‘Look – you should talk to your mum about that annexe idea again. Are you staying at theirs tonight?’
‘No,’ I say quickly. ‘I cancelled on her. She can’t see me looking like this.’ I’d considered asking Phoebe if I could stay with her, but I know she’d worry just as much as Mum, if not more.
‘Where are you staying then?’ Sarah asks.
‘Graeme’s putting me up.’
‘That’s crazy! Come and stay with me, Moll. I insist.’
I hesitate. ‘Oh, er … no. Thanks. Graeme’s been so nice with all this VIP stuff, and …’
She nods. ‘Fine. But promise me you’ll talk to your mum. Shall I put the wheels in motion then? Get them to put together a package, make you an offer?’
This is exactly what I was worried about – things moving too quickly, not being able to put the brakes on. Illogically, I look around for Graeme, but I can’t see him.
So I take a deep breath and jump in, feet-first, to this – the biggest decision of my life. ‘Yes, all right,’ I say, heart pounding with a mixture of fear and exhilaration like I’m inching towards the high point of a rollercoaster ride. ‘Ask them to put something together. But I’ll have to get back to you, let you know for sure – okay?’
Sarah makes a quick squeal of excitement. ‘I can’t believe it! One of my best ever team members coming back!’ And then she flings her arms round my neck, peppers kisses into my hair. Despite myself, I smile. This could be good, I permit myself to think, feeling her arms round me. This could be really good.
‘What’s that?’ someone I don’t even recognize asks, leaning over the back of their seat towards us, and all of a sudden I worry Sarah’s going to stand up, tap the edge of her glass, make an announcement.
I shoot Sarah a pleading look, and she does lift her glass, but only by way of explanation. ‘Sorry. Too much of this, I think.’ The woman smiles and turns back round, and Sarah grins at me. ‘Let’s get some more drinks. In fact – sod it. Let’s order champagne.’
‘Sarah, don’t tell anyone yet,’ I plead urgently. ‘I mean, there’s a lot I’d need to sort out. And – you know.’ I nod over at Libby. ‘I don’t want Lib to think I’m jumping in her grave or anything.’
‘Fine,’ she says. ‘But that doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to get excited. God, your mum is going to be ecstatic, Moll!’
I don’t say anything, because what I haven’t told her yet is that if I come back to London, I won’t need to live in an annexe in someone else’s garden.
I’ll need to start flat-hunting.
Because I’ll be coming back alone.
15
Alex – 21 March 2013
In the end, it’s liver cancer that kills our dad, just eight months after my wedding to Molly. He’s diagnosed a few weeks before Christmas, and passes away in March.
On the morning of his funeral, the sun finally breaks through days of persistent low cloud. Graeme has coordinated the whole day, having consulted extensively with Dad on what he wanted when it became clear the end was drawing near. He’s sorted out the hymns, eulogies, coffin, wake and burial, painstakingly making sure everything was exactly the way Dad woul
d have wanted it.
Despite everything, Graeme’s been loyal and steadfast to the last. I, on the other hand, have been a complete wreck – guilt-ridden for not moving back when Dad needed me most, and for never really feeling like we made it up after the disaster of Bonfire Night. I’ve been waking up in the middle of the night soaked in sweat and sobbing, dreaming about Dad being reunited with Mum in heaven, and the pair of them turning round to ask me why I wasn’t there for Dad when it mattered most.
A damn good knees-up was Dad’s main stipulation for the wake, so we head over to the church hall after the service and burial for what is, essentially, a party. Dad asked for the dress code to be vibrant, and consequently the entire congregation looked, from the end of the church nave, like a gently breathing rainbow. Graeme and I went on a bizarre little shopping trip two days ago to purchase identical Hawaiian shirts, since neither of us owned anything that could remotely fit the theme.
I’m sure the vicar privately thinks we’re all completely bonkers.
About half an hour into the wake I realize I can’t see Graeme anywhere. So reluctantly leaving Molly engaged in repetitive small talk with one of Dad’s old drinking buddies, I decide to go and look for him.
Eventually, I discover him in the kitchen. It smells of the sausages roasting for another batch of hot dogs (Dad’s favourite), and is thankfully a little warmer than the cavernous main hall which, despite a recent refurbishment the parish has been fundraising for since the dawn of time, is absolutely freezing.
Graeme’s leaning over the sink with his head hanging down, and for a moment I think he’s being sick. But then he looks up and smiles. ‘Sorry,’ he whispers.
I don’t know why, but my heart almost breaks. ‘Hey, don’t be.’
‘I’m hiding.’
‘From anyone in particular?’
He gives this some consideration. ‘I know Dad wanted today to be a celebration, but …’
I nod, to show him I understand. ‘I know. I don’t feel like celebrating either.’ Tentatively, I step forward and put my arm round his shoulders. We must look a bit sad, I think to myself, like two small-time comedians backstage at a provincial gig, psyching themselves up for their Hawaiian shirt double-act.