by Vivien Brown
‘No, everything’s fine, thank you, Mrs Payne. We ate a late lunch, and I’m not very hungry, that’s all.’
‘Tart?’
Patsy wasn’t sure for a moment whether she was being offered more food or if Geraldine was taking a sly opportunity to tell her just how she felt about her. She looked across at Michael, hoping to see some reaction, but his attention seemed taken up elsewhere, as he gazed out at a tree branch that overhung the fence and watched a bird balancing on it like a mini ballerina, bobbing up and down on its thin little legs.
‘It’s apple,’ Geraldine continued, straight-faced, not batting an eyelid. ‘Oh, no, of course, you don’t like pastry. Ice cream, then? Or a piece of fruit? We do like to finish with some sort of dessert, don’t we, Michael? Even if we think we’re full!’
We! We? Why did she think she could speak for Michael? Act like some kind of expert on what he liked to eat. As if he was still five years old. The woman was infuriating. Michael went on watching the bird, oblivious as always.
‘No. No, really. Nothing else. But let me help with the clearing up at least.’
Patsy would not rise to it. She would remain on her best behaviour, breathe deeply and say nothing. She started to pile up the plates, turning her back towards the others to hide her frustration, and dropping a greasy fork onto the carpet in the process. It was lying right next to Geraldine Payne’s fluffy-slippered foot, and, as she bent to retrieve it, she couldn’t help but notice the big thick blue vein that ran haphazardly up the side of her calf like a length of coiled string. Ugh!
There was a gravy mark on the carpet now too, but best not to point it out and risk all the fuss, so she supposed it was up to her to clean it up. She had no idea where to look for the right cloths or cleaning stuff, and no inclination to ask. It would have to be a blob of Fairy on a j-cloth. Or on one of those hideous robin serviettes. Oh, God, how she wanted to get out of here and back to her own cooking and her cold tiled floors.
‘Oh, and I do think you should start to call me Geraldine, don’t you? We’re as good as family now. Mrs Payne sounds so formal, and you’ll be calling yourself by that name soon enough, won’t you? If everything goes to plan …’
Goes to plan? Why shouldn’t it go to plan? They were getting married, weren’t they?
‘So, Michael, when are you going up to see Ruby?’ Geraldine’s voice had dropped to a whisper but not enough to prevent it reaching Patsy’s ears as she stumbled through into the kitchen, catching the heel of her shoe on the door jamb.
‘It’s okay, Mum. No need to whisper. I don’t keep secrets from Pats. But in answer to your question, I don’t know. I had hoped Ruby would be reasonable for once and that she’d have been in touch by now. She knows we’re here. I’ll call her in the morning …’
Patsy tried to keep her balance, but hopping on one foot was not easy when she was carrying a pile of plates. Chucking them ahead of her onto the draining board quickly, before they could slip out of her hands, she winced as they landed loudly. Too loudly. But at least they hadn’t smashed. ‘Oh, sorry,’ she said, half-heartedly, over her shoulder, knowing they probably couldn’t hear her anyway. ‘No harm done.’
But Michael and his mother were already moving off into the front room, the subject changed, and were now deep in conversation about the overhanging tree and whether to talk to the next-door neighbour about cutting it back, leaving her to do the washing-up and try to make something that at least half-resembled a decent cup of coffee.
CHAPTER NINE
Ruby
Click. Click. Click. Something’s making that noise, like a clock. Or shoes. Shoes with clattery bottoms, picking their way, carefully, across the floor. It sounds like someone is tiptoeing. Or trying to, but the noise won’t quite let them. Click. Click. Click.
Slap. Slap. Slap. Like a fish. Coming closer. Slower. Being extra quiet now, thinking I can’t hear. When the noise stops, I wait in the dark, in the silence, for it to start again, but it doesn’t.
Mike must be late home again. He’s creeping about, trying to make sure he doesn’t wake me, or Lily. I feel someone nearby, the sheets move, just a little, and a hand pushing my hair back from my face, gently. So gently. And then the hand is gone.
But, no, it can’t be Mike. Mike’s gone. Not just the hand. All of him. And it’s the night before the wedding. I didn’t think I’d be able to sleep at all, but I have. I must have. I feel like I’ve been asleep for ever. Fuzzy, drowsy. Trying to forget. But I can never forget. So much planning. All shattered. A wedding was meant to be the best day of your life. That’s what they say. But not mine. Because there is no wedding. Tomorrow is just a red ring on the calendar, crossed through, as if it never was.
I’m wondering what they’re all thinking, crossing it off their calendars too, changing their plans, returning their gifts to whichever shops they’d come from, their dry-cleaned suits hanging in wardrobes behind closed doors, with the tags still on. Geraldine said she’d bought a hat.
What happened to Geraldine’s hat?
Geraldine with that disappointed look she has. Sighing. Chest rising. Breath going in and out. In and out. Too loudly. Like something from a horror film. Something evil in a darkened room, in a mask, behind a door. Not Geraldine at all.
It’s breaking the silence. The only thing breaking the silence. It’s close to my face, whatever it is. Too close. Over my mouth. Held there. Pushing into me, its rhythm whooshing, puffing, hissing, sighing.
Breathing. Against me. With me. For me?
Then I hear it again. Echoing in the empty room. Click. Click. Click. The clock. Time. Shoes. Moving away. A final click, like a door closing and I’m alone again, and still breathing.
CHAPTER TEN
Agnes stretched out for the remote control and clicked the telly off. Why was there never anything decent to watch any more? She could remember the days when all the best programmes were on at the weekends. Variety shows, comedy, a good murder mystery. She used to love Sunday Night at the London Palladium, and Morecambe and Wise. And there were only three channels to choose from back then, too. Or was it only two? Now there was a list of channels as long as your arm and nothing worth watching at all.
She glanced at the clock, its steady ticking so familiar it was almost imperceptible unless she stopped and listened out especially for it. Not even nine-thirty yet. Too early for bed, and she’d read her newspaper from cover to cover. Another crossword maybe? She’d have a go at some knitting if she thought her old knuckles were up to it, but she’d hate to start something she couldn’t finish. And who was there to knit for, anyway?
Even Smudge seemed restless, ambling over to his cat flap and letting himself out for one final prowl before he settled down for the night. Agnes moved slowly to the door and opened it, peered out and then followed the old cat into the shared hallway. As she stepped across it to reach the main door and let him out onto the street, the automatic light came on, highlighting the buggies pushed up against the far wall and a pile of unclaimed post strewn across the mat. Most of it had been there for days. Probably junk. More menus for pizza, estate agents looking for places to sell, and ads for double glazing. She bent down slowly and scooped it up, so she could take it back with her to sort through, and then probably chuck most of it in the bin.
The house seemed especially lifeless this evening. The two young men on the top floor were rarely in, or if they were, their comings and goings were conducted quietly and at times of day or night when Agnes never got to see them. They’d introduced themselves on the day they’d moved in, but that had been a good while back now and she’d had nothing more than the occasional nod since. Jason and Rob, she thought they were called. Or was it Rick? Something like that. She had wondered briefly if they might be gay, but of course it was none of her business.
Then there was the mousey little grey-haired woman below them, on the second floor. There was often a baby there too, but not always, and the two of them would wander out sometimes, her carryi
ng the baby down the stairs on her shoulder and popping it into the buggy for their walk. Boy or girl? Agnes had taken a peep once, through the window, when the weather was warmer and the baby wasn’t buried in a pile of blankets, but it was impossible to tell. Must be the grandchild, Agnes thought, as the woman herself looked too old to have a baby of her own. But you never knew these days, what with test tubes and donors and what have you. But the baby was quiet now. Either that or it wasn’t there.
Which was more than you could say for the family on the first floor. That little girl must be about three. All rosy cheeks and bouncing blonde curls, like a doll. Full of beans too, that one! There had been more than the usual amount of banging and scraping and yelling today, the noise coming through Agnes’s ceiling like there was a herd of elephants up there, moving the furniture back and having a dance. The father was never about. She hadn’t seen him for weeks. No, months, more like. Probably working. But the mother, a thin little person, hardly more than a child herself, came and went. She knocked at Agnes’s flat once, said hello, came in and sat down, had a cup of tea, asked if she could help with anything. Ironing, shopping, cleaning. Agnes had thought the girl was just being neighbourly, showing a bit of kindness to an old lady on her own, but no. It turned out she wanted paying. She’d said something about doing the ironing for people while the child went to some nursery for a few hours a week. Free hours, apparently. What was that all about? Another government handout, no doubt. Always after something for nothing, the young ones of today. And, besides, Agnes was still perfectly capable of doing her own ironing.
Still, at least the girl – what was her name again? She wished she could remember – was trying to earn some money by honest means, she’d give her that. Not just having children she couldn’t afford to keep, and grabbing every benefit going, like so many of them did these days, if the papers were to be believed.
She and her Donald had waited for seven years after they got married, making sure they had enough saved, before young William came along. There was never any question of a nursery. No, Agnes believed a child’s place was at home, and a mother’s place – a good mother’s place – was to be right there with it.
Agnes had had very little to do with the girl since then, just said hello in the hall a few times, or watched her through the curtains, lifting the buggy down the steps, chattering away to the child all the time. Proper conversations, as if she had nobody more adult to talk to. Maybe she should make more effort, get to know the girl, invite her and the little one in for a glass of squash and a biscuit or something. But what would a young girl want to spend time with an old lady for? They’d have nothing in common. If she accepted her invitation, it would probably only be because it felt awkward to have to say no. Best leave it, for now. Agnes sighed.
There was crying coming from their flat again now, wafting towards her down the stairs. Not the loud tantrum screams there sometimes were, more just a niggling whine. A child not yet asleep, but who probably should be. No toddler should still be up and about at this time of night. Her William was always bathed and in bed straight after his tea, so she and Donald could get some time to themselves.
Agnes raised her eyes to the ceiling and tried not to be annoyed. It was nothing to do with her. She hardly knew these people, and they wouldn’t thank her for interfering. Perhaps the little one was teething anyway, or had a bug of some kind. She still remembered when her William had the measles, as if it was yesterday. How hot and red and upset he had been. How frazzled and frightened she had felt herself, and tired and helpless, and him barely a year old … She knew only too well how worrying it could be for the parents when a child was sick or in pain, and how distressing for the child. She glanced up the stairs again. Poor little mite.
Maybe tomorrow, when it was light, she would go up there and see if there was anything she could do. Just what, she wasn’t at all sure. But sometimes just knowing someone cared was enough …
She retreated back into her own flat, with the bundle of junk mail that would at least give her something productive to do for a few minutes, and closed the door behind her.
*
Laura and Fiona sat in the Red Lion, two halves of lager in front of them on the sticky wooden table. They were sitting too near the door, which kept opening and closing as customers came and went, letting streams of cold air in, so neither had yet removed their coats. It was the only table they’d been able to get at this time of the evening, and they didn’t want to brave the weather looking for somewhere else and then finding it just as busy.
It was raining again, that cold, driving rain that soaked into your bones and defeated all but the sturdiest of boots and umbrellas. They watched the raindrops run frantically down the outside of the window in haphazard diagonal lines, as the high heel of one of Fiona’s shoes tapped rhythmically against the leg of her chair and her painted nails drummed on the side of her glass.
‘So?’ Laura had waited long enough. ‘You’ve dragged me here straight from work, still in my tatty going-home-on-the-bus clothes, and in this awful weather too. You do realise I haven’t even had the chance to eat yet? And we both know you’re supposed to be out on your big date tonight. Look at you in all your bling and your fantastically expensive new shoes. Tell me! What happened? With Harry?’
‘Without Harry, you mean!’ Fiona stopped drumming and started sighing instead. ‘It was so humiliating! He just didn’t turn up. No sign of him, the rat. I waited at the bar, found a stool, bought myself a drink. The cheapest I could think of, but it was still two pounds sixty. Can you believe it? For a half! And it was flat.’
‘Then what?’
‘Then nothing. Seven o’clock, he’d said, and seven came and went. Half past. Quarter to eight. I kept watching the door, and the barman kept watching me. Do you know, Laura, I think he felt sorry for me. Sad, single no-hoper, all dressed up with nowhere to go, sipping on a lemonade shandy with a straw in it. How embarrassing is that?’
‘did you try phoning him? Or texting?’
‘I don’t have his number. It was all done through the website. It’s safer that way. That’s where we chatted, made the arrangements … all online. It’s like a kind of chat room. Or chat-up room, I suppose.’
‘No mobile numbers. No addresses. Yes, I can see the need for that. But, hey, it’s not the end of the world if you can’t track him down, is it? You might have hated him anyway, if he’d turned up. Or been disappointed. I bet he used someone else’s photo, that’s why he bottled out. Didn’t want you to see the real Harry, buck teeth and all! At least you haven’t had to sit through a whole evening of him. And now you’ve got me instead.’ Laura pulled a funny face, sticking her teeth out, buck-like, over her bottom lip, but Fiona didn’t laugh. ‘Oh, come on, drink up and I’ll get us another and a bag of crisps, as I’ve had no dinner.’
‘Thanks, Laura. You’re a mate. I just didn’t want to sit on my own any longer tonight. Or go home either. I knew you’d stay and keep me company. It’s not as if you had anything better to do, did you? Not having a boyfriend either, I mean. Do you know what? I’m going to buy us a curry later, to say thank you. And because I’m starving. That rat was meant to feed me! Tomorrow you can look at the dating site with me and help me choose my next date as I’m obviously absolutely no good at picking them for myself.’
*
She was on the TV. Only sodding Susan, sitting on a plush pink sofa, squeezed between a stand-up comedian and some newspaper editor he’d never heard of, all spouting on about books. William didn’t often watch the arty programmes, but there’d been no film to take his fancy tonight and he’d just flicked about looking for something to tide him over until bedtime.
Susan! It came as a shock, that was all, to find her there in his own living room, and in high def too. He’d not set eyes on her since the divorce. Not in the flesh. And there was a lot of flesh on display tonight, that was for sure. His eyes were drawn to her legs. She had high-heeled shoes on. Black and super-shiny with thin p
ointed toes, the sort that looked excruciatingly painful, but they made her legs look long and toned and – there was no other word for it – sensational. Hooker shoes. She’d never worn shoes like that for him. Or done her hair that way either. All high and blown back, with blonde streaks running through it. No frizz. No roots. It suited her.
Even as she was waffling on about the latest deadly dull literary discovery, she seemed to have a way of flirting with the other guests, or maybe it was just with the camera. William couldn’t help but watch her flicking her hair, licking her glossed-up lips, rubbing one high-heeled foot slowly up the back of the opposite leg. This was Susan. His Susan, as was, but she was like some alien creature, not the Susan he knew at all. If he didn’t already know what a prize bitch she could be, if he hadn’t seen her in curlers and a face pack, if he didn’t know that she farted in bed just like everybody else, he would almost have fancied her. Yes, damn it, he did fancy her! She looked amazing. Classy. Slimmer than she had been, younger-looking and, it was pretty plain to see, a darn sight happier. Was that what divorcing him had done for her? Let her become someone different? Set her free?
William looked down at himself. Egg-stained shirt, tartan slippers, stubbly chin, the remains of several meals rotting on unwashed plates scattered around him. Divorce had not set him free. It had simply allowed him to stop bothering, to give up, to revert to what he really was. And, if this was what he really was, then no wonder she had gone.
It was too much. He couldn’t stand it, couldn’t look at Susan a minute longer. She was like a stranger now. Taunting him, laughing at him, flaunting herself, and those endless legs, to the world. Did she know he would be watching? Was it all for his benefit? Showing him her newly reinvented self so he would see what he was missing? Well, it wasn’t going to work. He didn’t have to look at her. He reached for the remote and switched to another channel, some shopping auction thing with fake jewellery being flogged by what looked like an equally fake woman with an orange tan. But that last image of Susan, dark eyes turned directly towards him, burning into him, stayed there in his head for the rest of the night and refused to go away.