The House of New Beginnings

by Lucy Diamond

  ‘He’s met someone else,’ her mum blurted out in a rush. ‘I bumped into Sheila in Morrisons and she told me.’ Her mouth buckled and she reached out for Charlotte’s hand again, gripping it in her own. ‘I’m sorry, darling. It’s not what you expect to hear in the tinned goods aisle. I didn’t know whether I should say anything or not.’

  The words crashed against Charlotte like a wave against a sea wall. Jim had met someone else. Her husband – exhusband – was now with another woman. Not struggling to cope at all, then – in fact quite the opposite; he had moved on, forgotten her, forgotten them.

  Charlotte moistened her lips, trying to process the information, trying to gauge how she felt. Numb, mostly. Stunned. She managed a shrug. ‘It’s okay,’ she said even though she wasn’t sure this was true.

  Her parents exchanged a look. A look that told Charlotte there was more to come. Are you going to break it to her or shall I? that look asked. Oh no. What else? He hadn’t gone and shacked up with one of Charlotte’s friends, had he? He’d always had a not-so-secret soft spot for her friend Ruth – Charlotte had teased him about it in the past, back when things were still rock-solid between them, back when they were an ordinary couple and still laughed about silly stuff. Come to think of it, hadn’t she just seen Ruth posting something on Facebook about a new bloke? ‘Is it someone I know?’ she asked before she could stop herself. Jim’s mum Sheila would be over the moon if it was Ruth, she thought. Everyone loved pretty, clever Ruth. She could already see the wedding photos – second time lucky! – with Charlotte discreetly left off the guest list. Sorry, but . . . you know. We didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable. ‘It’s not . . . It’s not Ruth, is it?’ she blurted out.

  ‘Ruth Collins? No!’ her mum cried. ‘She’s dating some big-shot from London, according to Janice. I saw her in the Co-op.’

  ‘Hotbeds of gossip, the supermarkets round our way,’ Charlotte’s dad joked nervously. He put down his menu and harrumphed. ‘I’m going to have the shepherd’s pie myself. Charlie, have you decided what you’d like, love?’

  Her parents were so bad at pretending everything was okay. Now Dad was saying something about the golf tournament he’d played in recently and Mum had taken off her sunglasses and was polishing them on her sleeve. Charlotte knew she had two choices – either to play along and remain in blissful ignorance as to the full gory details around her ex and his love life, or to risk further pain by insisting on tearing the lid right off this particular can of worms. She sighed again, knowing that ignorance would only lead to paranoia, imagining every last worst-case scenario long into the night. ‘Go on,’ she muttered. ‘I know there’s something else. Let’s just get it over with, shall we? Please.’

  Her mum’s lip wobbled. She looked genuinely unhappy as she twisted the menu around awkwardly in her hands. And then before anyone could utter another word, Charlotte knew, she just knew, and her heart was racing, her blood turning cold. No. Not that. Not yet. She couldn’t bear to hear the words said out loud, she realized; she had changed her mind and didn’t want to know any more. ‘Actually –’ she began, but her mum was already speaking.

  ‘They’re having a baby.’ Four words, like four punches to the head. Wallop. ‘It’s all a bit of a rush, obviously – a surprise to everyone, Sheila said, but they’re going ahead with it. Due in the autumn. So . . .’ She was trying to catch Charlotte’s eye but Charlotte was having to concentrate very hard on not howling out loud and could no longer see straight. ‘So now you know.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  All Rosa could think about as she walked home on Saturday night were her feet. Her poor, aching, tired feet. She had just worked a fourteen-hour shift which had included a seven-course wedding breakfast plus evening buffet for two hundred and fifty people. She’d barely sat down once in that time. It was nights like this when she missed having a bath, easing herself into a tub of hot scented water and letting her tired limbs relax. She wasn’t sure she could stand up long enough to manage a shower.

  The moon was hidden, the sky dark as she picked her way along the seafront, the salty breeze fresh and cooling. And then over the rushing of the waves, she heard the unmistakable sound of male voices ahead, catcalling and jeering. She tightened her grip on her shoulder bag and felt in her pocket for her key, holding it ready to use as a weapon if need be. You could never be too careful.

  Approaching Dukes Square, she could see a group of people had spilled out of the pub on the corner, including a woman who was slumped over the back of a parked Land Rover. One of the men was behind her making obscene thrusting motions and his mates all roared their approval. Oh no. Was the woman okay? Should she be calling the police?

  ‘Hey,’ called Rosa, drawing nearer still and seeing that the woman seemed oblivious to the mob behind her. Her head was resting on the spare tyre as if it was a pillow, her long brown hair fanning around her shoulders. ‘What’s going on?’

  The men turned towards her, their faces half lit from the street lamps and the pub behind them. There was something menacing about them all standing there with the woman so vulnerable in their sights. ‘Lady’s had a bit much to drink,’ one of them offered, to a chorus of sniggering.

  The woman, as if registering them at last, raised a hand in the air. ‘Jush having a resh,’ she slurred. ‘Jush a liddle resh.’

  Ignoring the men, Rosa went over to her. ‘Are you okay?’ she asked. ‘Do you want me to help you get home?’

  The woman stared unseeingly at her. There was mascara on her cheeks and even though the light was dim, Rosa could tell she’d been crying. ‘My hushband,’ she said haltingly, her breath sour as if she’d been sick, her voice small.

  Rosa made shooing motions at the men then turned back. ‘Your husband?’ she repeated encouragingly. ‘Do you want me to call him?’

  The woman’s mouth quivered and Rosa stepped back instinctively in case she was about to throw up again. ‘Heesh . . .’ she said, tears filling her wide brown eyes. ‘Heesh met someone else. And . . .’ One tear plopped onto the spare tyre where it glistened in the streetlight, then her gaze met Rosa’s, anguished and broken. ‘And they’re having a baby.’

  Oh God, the despair on the woman’s face, the misery. ‘They’re having a bay-bee,’ one of the men behind them mocked, and Rosa swung around, fists clenched, fierce with rage. ‘Are you lot still here? You should be ashamed of yourselves,’ she said, advancing on them. ‘Go on, sod off. Leave her alone.’

  To her relief they melted away into the pub, and she turned back to the sobbing woman. ‘Come on,’ she said, sliding an arm around her in order to peel her off the Land Rover. ‘Let’s get you home. Where do you live?’

  Staggering a little as she found her balance, the woman pointed unsteadily up the hill. ‘This way,’ she said. Her hands were grazed as if she had fallen over and skinned them at some point in the evening. ‘Number eleven.’

  Rosa did a double-take. ‘Eleven? Dukes Square? Same as me,’ she said, and heaved the woman along in a slow, wavering stumble. ‘I’m Rosa, Flat 1.’

  ‘Oh fuck,’ said the woman, stopping suddenly. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Rosa said, misunderstanding. ‘Look, we’ve all been there. I could tell you a few stories about my vile—’

  ‘No,’ the woman said urgently, struggling out of Rosa’s grasp. ‘I mean, I need to—’

  And then she was sick all over the pavement.

  Some time later, once they had finally made it up the hill to SeaView House, and they had agreed what complete bastards men could be, and when Rosa had managed to get Charlotte (as her name turned out to be) safely into her flat, leaving a pint glass of water and a sick bowl by the bed for good measure, she was able to sink under her own duvet at last. Honestly, a broken heart could do brutal things to a woman, she thought. It had reduced poor Charlotte to weeping and puking in the street, it had sent Rosa running from London with everything she owned in the back of her car. ‘I don’t even love him any mor
e,’ Charlotte had wailed tearfully, halfway up the road. ‘I just feel sad.’ Yes. Rosa got that. Feeling as if you were over an ex – as she did too, these days – didn’t prevent you from being emotional about them. Look at her and her Ann-Marie-stalking, for example. What did that say about her?

  Rolling over, she closed her eyes, remembering the steely resolve that had filled her as she saw the Oxford train pulling out of Paddington station, carrying Max – David – off to his wife and children. As soon as she’d arrived back at his flat, she’d got straight to work, determined to find out just what the hell was going on. Out came all of Max’s clothes from the wardrobe and drawers, their pockets checked one by one. Out came his sports bag, his laptop case, the spare suitcase – all emptied and looked through in case they doubled up as hiding places. Out came the paperwork in their spare room-cum-office, dumped on the floor so that she could scan everything for evidence. David, David . . . where are you, David?

  She tipped up a box of photos, turning her head away from all the smoochy coupley holiday shots of the two of them looking so happy together, she peered under his side of the bed and emptied the contents of his bedside cabinet. There must be something. Was she going mad? There had to be something!

  There was only one drawer in his desk that she hadn’t got into yet – the top one that he kept locked. She had never seen the key to it before, never thought to pay much attention, really. Until now, that was. And now she really, really wanted to see inside that locked drawer of the beautiful old oak desk he’d apparently inherited from his grandfather (another lie, probably). Having exhausted all other places to look, and not having a clue where the key might be, she had no other choice. She took a hammer to it and smashed through the lock. The wood made a satisfying splintering sound as it fractured, then she wrenched out the drawer. A pile of papers fluttered to the carpet, letters mostly, addressed to Mr David Chandler. Gotcha.

  After that, it had been easy. She’d searched for David and Ann-Marie Chandler online and up had popped Ann-Marie’s happy little Facebook page, unlocked, unguarded, with photo after photo of the four of them and their idyllic rural life. The kids helping with the Christmas decorations (adorable), the dog not helping with the Christmas decorations (also adorable), chit-chat about Josh’s carol concert and little Mae’s first wobbly tooth, and David, handsome, laughing David, cheering on Josh at some kids’ football match, hoisting his little girl on his shoulders, one big strong arm around pretty doting Ann-Marie. And oh, it was just unbearable, it was impossible to see any more, because the tears were streaming down her face and her throat felt raw from wailing.

  David bloody Chandler, and his whole other life. How she hated him!

  ‘How are you doing? Here, I brought you some biscuits and magazines; this is the one that Georgie writes for, look. Have you met her? She’s from one of the flats upstairs.’ It was the bank holiday Monday and Rosa had come to visit Jo who was still languishing in hospital. Bea had texted that morning to say that Gareth was taking her out to see some cousins and would be gone ALL DAY and could she please, please pop in and say hello to her mum for her? It was the first time Rosa had seen her neighbour since staying in her flat, and it was hard to equate the pale woman in the bed with the exuberant hedonist she’d glimpsed in all her photos. ‘Oh, and here’s your post,’ she added.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Jo, shuffling so that she was more upright in the bed. She still looked wan and wrung-out but there was more colour in her cheeks at least, just a tinge. It had been over ten days now since she’d first been rushed into the hospital and, according to the nurse, the infection she’d picked up had been pretty aggressive. Still, she was responding well to the antibiotics at last apparently, and hoping to come home before too much longer. ‘Ooh, are those home-made?’ she asked, perking up as she unwrapped the foil parcel Rosa had plopped into her lap and saw the chocolate-chip cookies inside. ‘Bea’s been telling me what a good cook you are. She seems to think you’re opening your own restaurant any day soon.’

  Rosa laughed. ‘Um . . . Not quite,’ she said. ‘Learning the trade at the Zanzibar first. Lesson one, if the head chef throws a spatula at you, duck.’

  ‘Shit, really? That sounds . . . kind of abusive,’ Jo said, delving a hand into the cookies. ‘Well, these look fabulous, thank you. Help yourself. How is Bea, anyway? Is she getting on any better with Gareth, do you know?’

  Rosa hesitated before answering. During the week, Gareth and Bea were shuttling between his place and Jo’s flat, to make things easier for Bea, and she’d heard a few arguments through the wall, and the occasional slamming of doors. That said, he’d also knocked at her place a couple of times, to ask (rather bashfully) if she could make some suggestions for Bea’s food tech homework, and, on another occasion, about how to make porridge, because apparently Bea kept telling him his attempts were abysmal. ‘He seems perfectly nice to me, but I’m not sure how well they’re hitting it off,’ she said diplomatically in the end.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Jo, chewing a mouthful of cookie. ‘They’ve had a difficult few years really. I was hoping this might bring them back together but maybe not.’

  It was on the tip of Rosa’s tongue to ask what had happened but politeness got the better of her. ‘She seems a great girl, Bea,’ she said instead, her own words rather taking her aback. It was true though: these days she found Bea amusing and entertaining, a different character altogether from the hostile, angry person Rosa had first encountered. But then again, Rosa realized, she herself had changed too. No longer the same recluse she had been at the start of the year, no longer so determined to keep other people at bay. ‘I love how passionate she gets about the injustices of the world,’ she went on, ‘how she sees everything in black and white.’ Why don’t you . . . just be a chef? Bea had asked, as if this solution was blindingly obvious.

  Jo smiled faintly. ‘I think that’s part of the problem with Gareth,’ she admitted. ‘We fell out quite badly after I took Bea to India against his will, and . . . well, things went a bit wrong. He was angry, I was defensive . . . and Bea basically took my side, Team Mum.’

  ‘And because she was Team Mum, that meant she couldn’t be Team Dad at the same time?’

  ‘Exactly. Even though, actually, Gareth was well within his rights to be angry with me, because in hindsight I can see that what I did was selfish and impulsive and . . .’ She grimaced, her voice trailing away, eyes downcast. ‘Anyway. We all make mistakes.’

  ‘We totally do,’ Rosa said, with feeling. She’d certainly made enough of her own.

  ‘I was all over the place at the time, that was the thing, I didn’t realize . . . Anyway,’ Jo said again, sighing. ‘The ironic thing is that Gareth and I get on fine now, there’s no friction any more. We split up because I realized – well, not to put too fine a point on it, that I preferred women. I can’t imagine that would do much for any bloke’s pride, but he got over it, we’re mates, we’ve moved on. It’s just Bea . . . It’s like she made her mind up about him three years ago and won’t budge. She thinks he doesn’t care about her, so she rejects him, and then feels even worse when he doesn’t come running after her. I don’t know. It’s tough, isn’t it? Life, I mean. Families. Loving people.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Rosa, remembering poor Charlotte on Saturday night, down there at rock bottom with her grazed hands and her tear-stained face. Remembering herself too, brokenhearted as she drove out of London, doing her best not to look back at what she was leaving behind. And Jo, and Bea, and Gareth . . . ‘It’s tough, all right.’

  There was a golden wedding anniversary party at the hotel that night: cheesy music, endless canapés, a huge cake, and lots of people celebrating together in their best clothes. ‘Thank God for the sound of laughter, I was starting to think everyone was miserable,’ Rosa commented to Natalya as they took a break outside. They could hear the noise of the party floating through an open window, and then wild cheering. Perhaps the cake was being cut, or maybe the golden couple themselves
had finally taken to the dancefloor. (Earlier there had been only one big-haired guy strutting about there, a handsome preening sort of man who was either already out of it, or had taken the song ‘He’s the Greatest Dancer’ to be his personal theme tune.) ‘At least there are still some happy people left in the world,’ she added with a shrug.

  ‘Tchah,’ said Natayla scornfully. There was something generally glum about her colleague’s disposition, Rosa thought. She had a sallow complexion, a great bush of brown hair that was messily tied back, and frown lines that seemed permanently etched into her forehead. ‘They are happy now yes, because they have our food, and they are pissed and they are all together. But underneath they are miserable too. I tell you.’

  Trust Natalya to bring a person back down to earth. Her words did make Rosa think, though. It was true, in a sense, that you could engineer some bonhomie and happiness, however fleeting, through food and wine and company. She thought how much she’d always enjoyed throwing dinner parties in the past, getting people together around a table. The world definitely seemed better when you were in a group, bellies as full as your wine glasses.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Natalya asked, scrutinizing her. ‘Your face is frowning.’

  ‘Oh, nothing much,’ Rosa said, draining her coffee and wincing. She really had to stop making it so head-bangingly strong. ‘I was just thinking maybe I’d . . .’

  ‘Oi! Are you two time-wasters ever going to finish yacking?’ And there was Brendan, right on cue, yelling out of the door at them. ‘Get a move on, there’s work to do in here.’

  ‘Work,’ Natalya grumbled, stubbing her cigarette against the wall. ‘Always the bloody work with that man.’ She raised her voice. ‘We are coming!’

  I was just thinking maybe I’d throw a dinner party. Rosa finished her own sentence in her head, as she and her colleague made their way back inside. A dinner party for her neighbours. Hark at you! a voice in her head scoffed. Getting sociable all of a sudden, aren’t we, inviting the rest of the world in for a change! But why not? It might be just what they all needed, her included. And while it was all very well being receptive to joy, as the fortune teller had advised, sometimes you had to try and share it around with others, too.