11 Missed Calls

by Elisabeth Carpenter

  I manage to avoid all the creaking floorboards and make it quietly downstairs to the kitchen. The ticking of the clock is too loud. On the table, Jack’s plate is covered with pizza crusts, and crumbs litter the floor under the chair.

  The three wine glasses are now empty. Why the hell did he want to drink flat champagne? I go to the fridge to count the bottles of beer left: there were six, and now there are none. No wonder he’s sleeping so soundly. I don’t know why he’s drinking so much when he’s looking after Sophie tomorrow. He’s usually the sensible one.

  I sit opposite his empty chair. It’s wearing the jacket that Jack was earlier. His right pocket is slightly open, and the top of his wallet is peeking out.

  Before I know it, I’m out of my seat.

  The wallet slips out of Jack’s pocket so easily, it’s like it was waiting for me. Inside is a picture of Sophie and me. It’s old – from Sophie’s first birthday. I look quite together in the photo, which is surprising considering what I was going through. There are some receipts – the usual expenses he claims: newspapers, dinner. I scan the food he ate at lunchtime yesterday: steak, crème brûlée, and one small glass of pinot noir. Only one meal, but quite an extravagant one – on my birthday. I almost give up searching, but I feel like I am missing something.

  There is a compartment I’ve not noticed before: to the side and underneath his cards. I wedge my fingers inside it. There’s something there. I grasp it, using my fingers as tweezers, and pull it out.

  It’s a note. The paper is blue, with black lines – like the old-fashioned Basildon Bond writing pad my grandmother used. The creases are crisp; it’s not been read many times. I unfold it and look straight to the name at the bottom: Francesca.

  I read the rest of the letter.

  This woman definitely knows my husband.

  Chapter Four

  Friday, 27 June 1986

  Debbie

  Peter’s holding Annie while I pack. I almost don’t want to leave the hospital. With Bobby, I wanted to go home straight away, but regretted it as soon as I got back.

  Ever since I gave birth to him, I’ve been scared that I’ll die any minute. I go to bed and, most nights, I think I won’t wake up. Sometimes I’m exhausted, but when my mind feels sleep begin – it’s like I’m slipping from life, and I’m jolted awake. I can’t sleep for hours after.

  At least in hospital I’m safe. Plus, people give you food to eat, and you don’t have to worry about housework. As much as Peter said he’d become one of these New Men who help tidy up and change nappies, it didn’t happen. Now I know what’s waiting for me when I get home.

  I had a little routine here. I got to know Stacy in the next bed. Actually … know is exaggerating it a bit. We watched Coronation Street together, and both our babies decided to sleep through it, which was a miracle in itself. Stacy couldn’t get over Bet Lynch being in the Rovers when it was on fire. I told her that it’s not real life, but she was having none of it. I put a cushion between us when she said she fancied Brian Tilsley – it still gives me shivers thinking about it.

  ‘Was it horrible spending the whole of your birthday in hospital?’ says Peter.

  ‘It wasn’t too bad,’ I say.

  I smile at him, so he’ll probably think it’s because of Annie that I didn’t mind, because she’s enough of a present. He gives me a smile back. He thinks he can read my mind. I look at him and he’s the same lovely-looking man I’ve been with for years. I love him. Why are my thoughts telling me different? It’s like they’re betraying me.

  I zip up my suitcase; the clothes inside’ll smell of hospital when I open it up. I’ll probably feel sentimental about it.

  ‘It’s too warm in here,’ I say.

  He smiles again. Perhaps he likes the fact I’m suffering for our child – even after being pregnant and giving birth. Perhaps he’s right. It was a relatively quick labour – I’ve not endured enough to deserve the life I’ll go back to: swanning about the house all day watching Sons and Daughters, The Sullivans, and all the other soaps he reckons I watched during those long weeks when my maternity leave started.

  ‘Good luck,’ says Stacy, lying in the next bed, baby fast asleep in her arms – her only child.

  ‘Good luck,’ I say, to be friendly. ‘Not that you’ll need it.’

  ‘We should meet up for coffee sometime,’ she says.

  ‘Yes, we should.’

  I pick the baby up from the bed and Peter and I leave the ward. I didn’t give Stacy my telephone number because we’ll never get together. People suggest it all the time and they never mean it. I’m not sure if I’ll regret it or not.

  Annie’s wrapped up in the shawl we used for Bobby on his first day out into the world. We’re in the lift and Annie’s not opened her eyes since leaving the ward. She’s going to miss her first proper glimpse of sky if she’s not careful.

  ‘There, there,’ I say, stroking her soft, plump cheek.

  ‘Don’t wake her, Debs,’ says Peter. ‘The bright light might startle her.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. She’s got to see it some time.’

  The lift doors open and there are people everywhere.

  ‘Can we pop into the shop to get a souvenir?’ I say.

  I don’t wait for Peter.

  ‘Is Annie not souvenir enough?’

  I pretend I didn’t hear. I want something to put in her little keepsake box, like I did for Bobby. Someday she’ll look at it and know that I cared enough.

  On the counter, there’s a selection of pens. I pick one up that has a boat sailing up and down. She’ll like that, I know she will. I’d have loved my mum to have bought me anything that wasn’t on a birthday or Christmas, even if it were practical.

  ‘A pen’s got nothing to do with hospitals,’ says Peter.

  ‘They’re hardly going to sell stethoscopes and hypodermic needles.’

  I smile at the lady behind the counter, but she doesn’t smile back. She’s not amused. I’m used to it. Peter’s always telling me not to be so honest in public.

  I wind the window down because it’s as hot in the car as it was in the hospital. I’m holding on to Annie tightly on the back seat. Peter’s driving at about ten miles an hour. It’s a good job our house is only five minutes away.

  I’m staring at Annie, willing her eyes to open, and it seems she’s telepathic: her eyes don’t even squint in the daylight.

  ‘Welcome to the world, little girl.’

  I say it quietly, so Peter doesn’t hear. I’m keeping this moment for me.

  They’re due here at three. The house looks okay; I have the baby as an excuse not to bother about it so much. If it were my mum visiting, I’d make it a bit messier – if only to give her something to do. She likes to feel useful.

  Bobby’s waiting by the window. His little hands are around the cat’s neck as it lies on the back of the settee. Annie’s in the pram next to him by the window – the midwife said it’s the best way to get the jaundice out of her.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t mind Monica and Nathan coming round?’ says Peter. ‘I tried to put them off, but she wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘It’s fine, it’s fine.’

  Sometimes I think Peter knows about my secret, but he doesn’t seem to let on.

  He says I look good, considering, but I don’t feel it. I can’t move quickly with these damn painful stitches; I walk like I’ve drenched my trousers in starch. I’d planned what to wear when they came round, but my blouse gaped too much at the front. I’m like a cow that needed milking two days ago, and my breasts are leaking so much. So now, I’m wearing a jumper, in June, with two green paper towels from the hospital stuffed in each cup of my bra.

  ‘They’re here,’ shouts Bobby, jumping down from the settee, scaring the cat.

  ‘I’ll go,’ says Peter, as though he’s doing me a huge favour by answering the door.

  I hear them in the hallway – Monica’s whispering in case Annie’s asleep, but Peter’s talking normally
because we’ve decided to talk at a regular volume during the day so as not to make the baby used to silence. It took Bobby three years to learn that there didn’t have to be quiet in order to sleep.

  I’m not the first person Nathan looks at when he walks in the room. His eyes are on the floor until his gaze reaches the pram wheels, and only then does he look up. He almost tiptoes, which isn’t really necessary on the carpet.

  ‘Well aren’t you a pretty little thing?’ he says.

  Monica’s in my face and I almost jump, until I realise she’s kissing my cheek.

  ‘I know I saw you in the hospital,’ she says, ‘but bloody well done, you.’

  She hands me a Marks & Sparks carrier bag that she’s filled with magazines, Ferrero Rocher, and a mini bottle of Snowball. Is it too early to open it?

  ‘You don’t need to whisper, everyone,’ shouts Peter, as though there were a crowd in the room. ‘We’re doing this thing …’

  I let him explain. It’s embarrassing. It’s like we’re pretending to be New Age parents when we’re probably the opposite. Does Nathan think I’m boring now – worrying about babies and what sort of noise is acceptable?

  ‘Did you see the match on Sunday?’ Peter says to Nathan.

  ‘Oh God, don’t mention it,’ says Monica. ‘He’s not stopped moaning about it all week.’

  ‘Bloody hand of God,’ says Nathan. ‘I’m not watching any more World Cup. I just can’t believe …’ He shakes his head.

  Monica sits and pulls Nathan down towards the settee by his hand; he lands next to her. Peter goes to the kitchen, and Monica leans towards me, her hands on her knees.

  ‘Peter’s so good, isn’t he?’

  I glance at Nathan; he’s still not looking at me.

  ‘He is,’ I say. ‘He’s the best.’

  Monica tilts her head. They’ve left Leo at his friend’s so they can have a proper visit. She’s so nice to me, she’s been such a good friend. I suddenly have this sense of remorse and a crushing feeling of shame about the thoughts I’ve been having. She gets down onto her knees and reaches into her pocket for a rectangular tissue.

  ‘It’s only normal,’ she says. ‘I cried for days after I had Leo.’

  I hadn’t realised I was crying.

  I pat my face dry and look at Nathan above the tissue.

  He narrows his eyes when he looks at me.

  Was that hatred? Does he think I’m weird? I’ve always been inappropriate. I feel like I’m in the wrong life. I should be with Nathan, not Peter. He was with me first, after all.

  There was a girl in my class at school who died in a car crash when she was fourteen. I’ll always remember her name: Leslie Pickering. It’s terrible that I think about her at times like this, and I don’t know why I do. I think to myself: she never has to go through this, and I wish I were her. These thoughts scare me.

  ‘It’s just … just …’

  I think of poor Leslie Pickering’s parents. I bet they wish I were dead instead of her, too.

  My face is in my hands. Why am I doing this in front of them?

  Monica pats my knees and rubs them like I need warming.

  ‘We need to arrange a night out,’ she says.

  I look up. Nathan wrinkles his nose.

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Monica,’ he says. ‘She’s just had a baby – why the hell would she want a night out?’

  I sit up a bit straighter and stuff the tissue up my sleeve.

  ‘Mind your language in front of Bobby,’ says Monica. ‘What about Lytham Club Day tomorrow instead? We could let the boys go on a few rides.’

  ‘Actually, that doesn’t seem such a bad idea,’ I say, pretending I want to go outside – that I wouldn’t care if everyone saw me walking like I’ve a horse missing between my legs. I could take some painkillers. ‘I’ve been in the house for too long. I could do with getting out.’

  I try to make eye contact with Nathan, but after a few minutes, it gets silly. I’m ridiculous. Because it’s all in my head. Why would he want me? A mother who’s just given birth to her second child, and a wife who’s supposed to be in love with her husband. I’m a joke.

  Chapter Five

  Anna

  Sheila, the volunteer who comes in nearly every day, is in the back room of the bookshop, filling the kettle and sighing to herself. I don’t want to be here either. I need to be investigating the address that Debbie sent the email from.

  It was at the end of primary school that I started the scrapbook filled with facts about her. I thought if I kept a list, then it would keep her alive – it was something tangible. As soon as I learned something new, I would write it down. There must be over a hundred snippets of information in there. Sometimes things would slip out of Dad or Robert’s mouth and I would repeat it again and again in my head till I could find a pen and paper. Grandad never said much about Debbie, though. I never had to carry a notebook when I went to his house. Perhaps he thought he was being kind.

  Grandad usually comes into the bookshop on a Sunday after the ten o’clock Mass. He sits at the counter if he can wrestle Sheila out of the way. He said he wasn’t really into religion until Gran died nearly twenty years ago. He’s been to church every Sunday since.

  My grandmother was sixty-nine when she had her first, fatal heart attack. I was ten, nearly eleven. She used to talk about my mother all the time. ‘I want you to remember all the little bits,’ she said, ‘in case I’m not around for long enough.’ It was as though she’d predicted her own death. She was the one who helped me create the scrapbook. ‘Your brother’s still too hurt to hear all of this. I don’t see that changing any time soon, Lord help him,’ she said. ‘But I’m glad you want to know. Frank can’t talk about her for long … He hides in his office.’

  Grandad’s office is a little wooden shed he built in their back yard.

  I wonder how he is taking the news about the note from Debbie. Dad must have told him by now, yet Grandad’s not answering his telephone or replying to his emails or texts. My messages are coming up as read, so I know he’s okay. But it’s not like him to ignore anything. He loves technology – he was the person who explained the workings of the Internet to me. ‘We are all closer together because of this,’ he said. ‘Though sometimes it makes us realise we’re worlds apart.’

  The new volunteer is five minutes late. How can she expect to be taken seriously if she’s not punctual? She’s meant to be embarking on a new start. That’s what my boss, Isobel, said. I might be the manager of this bookshop, but sometimes Isobel sends volunteers here because she wants to appear more Christian than she really is.

  At least it takes my mind off the letter for five minutes. Or rather, letters: plural. Why are different aspects of my life falling apart at exactly the same time? Can’t things go well for more than one day?

  I put Jack’s letter back in his wallet last night, but only after I had taken a photo of it on my mobile phone. To the love of my life. That’s what she called him. It wasn’t dated, so I can’t tell if it is old or new. There were no references to any events past or present. I try to think back to when Jack and I got together, to remember names of past girlfriends, but I can’t. I don’t think we even mentioned our exes; it didn’t seem important once we found each other.

  If the volunteer isn’t here in three minutes, I’ll look at the letter on my phone ag—

  ‘Annie Donnelly?’

  I didn’t even hear the door open. A woman is standing in front of me. She is taller than me and in her late fifties, at a guess. She’s without make-up and her face looks weather-beaten and tanned, as though she spends her weekends outdoors. Her hair is dark, and her skin has a healthy glow that I will never have, being in this bookshop all the time.

  ‘It’s Anna,’ I say, a little more harshly than I intended.

  I slide off the stool behind the counter.

  ‘Sorry.’ Her voice is quiet, but she returns my gaze. ‘I’m Ellen.’

  ‘It’s eight minutes past.’

/>   I’m not usually so spiky, but already I get the impression she doesn’t want to be here. She glances at the clock behind me, then looks at her wrist.

  ‘My watch is behind … since the clocks went forward. I must’ve set it wrong.’

  ‘Right.’ I try not to waver from her gaze.

  The clocks went forward nearly three months ago, but I don’t mention it.

  ‘Follow me into the back,’ I say, leading her into the small stockroom. Every spare space on the twenty-three long shelves is crammed with books.

  ‘I’ll get to my spot behind the counter,’ says Sheila, carrying her cup of tea.

  ‘Do you want to see my CV?’ asks Ellen, blinking so much now, it’s like there is something in her eyes. She reaches into her handbag before I reply, and hands me a brown envelope. ‘It sounds worse than it was.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘What they say I did. Did Isobel tell you?’

  She means her criminal record. I’ve seen enough crime dramas to know that everyone says, I didn’t do it.

  ‘No. Isobel has this thing about confidentiality – she takes it seriously. If you want to tell me when you’re ready, then that’s up to you. As Isobel took it upon herself to get your references, you don’t have to tell me anything.’

  I really want to ask what she was in prison for, but the words won’t come out. I’m the manager – I can’t engage in gossip.

  ‘Oh,’ says Ellen.

  I’ve said too much, mentioning Isobel and her confidentiality, which I over exaggerated. She goes on about data protection, but she’s the biggest gossip I know.

  We look at each other as I wait for Ellen to tell me all about it. She breaks my stare, looking instead at all the books on the shelves.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ she says.

  I try not to look disappointed – it might be on her CV. Though I doubt most people would count being in prison as an occupation.

  I point to the table, which has three huge boxes of books on it.