‘So, how does it feel to be free for a few hours?’ she says. ‘I wish my mum would offer to have Leo – we have to pay a babysitter. Mum must’ve seen him, what, ten times since he was born?’
‘Don’t exaggerate, Monica,’ I say. ‘That’s only because she moved back down south.’
She rolls her eyes.
‘You see? What kind of grandmother chooses a career over her only grandchild? It’s unheard of.’
‘At least she sends money to make up for it.’
‘True,’ she says, smiling. ‘But I do envy the way your mum is with your two.’
‘Me too.’
‘Ha!’ She shakes the sugar sachet before ripping it open. ‘She’s probably mellowed out since we were teenagers.’
‘Not towards me, she hasn’t.’
This idle chat isn’t why I asked Monica to meet me, but I’m scared to say it. Why should I be? She’s the closest thing I have to a sister.
‘Do you remember,’ she says, ‘when you told your mum you were staying at mine, but really we were camping with Mark Saunders in his back garden?’
‘I’d forgotten about that. I made you come home with me in the morning in case she could tell from my face I was hiding something.’
‘You always were a shit liar.’
I smile at her. She was always the best at lying. Most of the time, she’d tell me stories that were so mundane, so ordinary, that I’d wonder why she’d bother to make them up in the first place. But there was one that stuck with me.
‘I remember you said Mark Saunders had a crush on me,’ I say. ‘I made a right fool of myself sending him that Valentine’s card.’
The smile vanishes from her face. ‘I didn’t think I confessed to you about that.’
‘You didn’t. He told me.’
‘Ah.’ She sips her tea. ‘Bugger, that’s hot.’
I smile, not hiding my delight. ‘You should add more milk.’
She looks up at me. ‘Do you forgive me? I am sorry, you know. My mum said it was to get attention.’
‘What was?’
‘My making up stories. Though it was her attention I wanted, but didn’t get, so it hardly worked.’
‘It got my attention,’ I say. ‘It made me think you were crazy.’
She laughs. ‘Only you would stick around with a weirdo like me. You’re too nice for your own good.’
I look down at my frothy coffee sprinkled with chocolate powder. I dab the milky foam with my finger and put the mixture in my mouth.
‘I doubt that,’ I say.
‘You’ve not been yourself these past few weeks, that’s all.’
Sometimes, it’s like she thinks she knows it all, but she doesn’t. We sit in silence for a few minutes. It shouldn’t feel this awkward.
‘Why did you meet up with Peter the other day?’ I say.
A redness appears on her neck and works its way up to her cheeks. She puts her palms on the table and leans forward.
‘I was going to tell you about that, but you beat me to it. What did Peter say about it?’
‘Peter didn’t tell me. It was Dean who lives opposite us. He saw you two in town.’
Saying you two makes me feel sick.
‘Oh, Dirty Deano.’ She laughs.
I narrow my eyes.
‘Sorry.’ She sits up straight and looks around the café, but no one’s near us. ‘Peter phoned me at work … said he was worried about you.’
‘Worried? Why?’
‘He said …’ She looks around again. ‘He said that you didn’t seem to enjoy life any more – that you weren’t happy. You know what he’s like: he’s a sensitive soul.’
‘It’s only three weeks since I had Annie. And anyway, what’s happy got to do with anything?’
I look out of the window at the busy road outside. I can’t believe I’ve just quoted my mother.
‘It’s got everything to do with it, Debs.’ She puts a hand on mine.
I want to swipe it from underneath hers. ‘It must be the baby blues,’ I say. ‘That’s a thing, right?’
She shrugs. ‘I guess. But I thought the blues came a few days after.’
I lift my hand away from hers, using my coffee as the reason. I sip the drink, but it’s cold and bitter.
‘I think I’ve been hearing things … voices,’ I say. ‘It sounds like my uncle – Charlie, who died years ago. I know it’s not really him. It must be the tiredness. Everyone hears voices from time to time, don’t they?’
Monica’s mouth drops open, her eyebrows rise. ‘I’ve never heard voices,’ she says.
Oh God. I’ve made a mistake telling her. She’ll tell everyone. Peter might get me sectioned. For a moment, the idea sounds tempting: I’ll get a break, away from everything.
No. Get a grip, Debbie.
Monica leans back in the chair, as though she’s afraid I might take off all my clothes and run around naked.
‘What are you smiling at?’ she says.
‘Nothing. I was just thinking about Annie.’
‘How many times have you heard your uncle? What did he say?’
‘Something about catching a fairy,’ I say. Monica’s frowning again. ‘You know. Dandelion clocks.’ I wave my hand. ‘Never mind.’
She’s never been into all that ghost stuff. I’m sure it was her who moved the glass when we did a Ouija board at secondary school.
‘If it happens again,’ she says, ‘make an appointment with the doctor. They might give you something for it.’
‘Something for it?’ I pick up the coffee again to distract myself from her staring at me. ‘It was probably Bobby talking in his sleep, or someone in the street.’
I feel silly telling her about it. I can see she doesn’t believe me. But really, there’s not much difference between the two of us: me hearing voices, her being a habitual liar.
‘I’ll come with you to the doctors, if you’re scared,’ she says. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of.’
There is, I think. They could take my children away from me.
‘Thanks,’ I say.
But I’ve no intention of mentioning it to anyone again. She looks at me as though there’s something not quite right with me. I suppose that might be true.
Chapter Eighteen
Anna
The waiting room is beige, and the paintings on the wall are beige. I’d expected Francesca King’s office to be more modern, minimalist. There’s a television in the corner that’s switched off. I could do with a distraction.
In the quiet, the conversation with Monica this afternoon at their house runs through my mind.
‘What about Debbie and Nathan?’ I had asked. ‘What happened between them?’
‘I can’t talk to you before I’ve spoken to Peter,’ she said. ‘You might say something to him. I can’t have your dad thinking I’m going behind his back. He didn’t want you kids to know.’
‘Don’t you know me? I’d never do that.’
She placed the back of her hand on her forehead.
‘I can’t see properly,’ she said. ‘I think I’m getting a migraine. I can only see half of your face. I need to lie down in the dark.’
And that was the end of the conversation. That’s what it has always been like – I only get part of the story.
There is another man in the waiting room. Divorce, I imagine. He keeps sniffing and wiping his face with a stringy tissue that’s already soaked. I try not to stare; he doesn’t notice me anyway.
The door opens. Before Francesca has a chance to come out, the snivelling man leaps from his seat and almost sprints towards her.
What am I even doing here? I don’t think Jack believed there was an emergency at the shop.
‘At a closed charity bookshop?’ he’d said. ‘At seven o’clock at night?’
‘I think I left the heater on,’ I said, putting on my coat. ‘If those books catch fire … there are flats above it … I wouldn’t be able to sleep for thinking about it.’
He was smiling at me as I walked into the hallway. I hadn’t told him I’d rung in sick that day. Every time I looked at him, I pictured him with Francesca; stroking her hair, her legs, her face. I was almost sick.
But now I’m here, I don’t know what I am going to say to her. Is this normal, what I’m doing? Most people would confront their other half, not sneak around visiting his mistress’s place of work.
I get up to leave, but her door opens again. Have I been sitting here that long?
The man is still holding the tissue, but his eyes are no longer red.
‘She’s good, she is,’ he says, pointing to Francesca. ‘I can’t let that bitch of an ex near my children. She’s dangerous.’
‘Oh, I see,’ I say. ‘Very good.’ My hands tremble as they cling to my handbag in front of me.
Francesca waits until the man has gone, before she says, ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. Come on through.’ She says it so nicely, I have no choice but to follow her.
Her office has a large metal-and-glass desk. The bookcases either side of it are white and crammed with leather books, like Jack’s. His office is mahogany, more traditional.
‘We don’t have to read them all,’ she says, catching me looking at the shelves. She sits down in her bright-orange tub chair. It looks expensive; everything about her does. ‘Only when we get an unusual case.’
I look around for photos of her family. If she has children, perhaps she would understand, be considerate of my situation. She might not have realised Jack’s married.
But, on second thoughts, why would her being married with children make a difference? Either you’re a person who cheats, or you’re not.
‘My husband’s having an affair,’ I say.
She doesn’t flinch. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Her tone is gentle; she’s frowning. I almost believe her sincerity.
‘I think it’s with another … a colleague.’
She picks up a pen. Should I give Jack’s name? Client confidentiality means she can’t repeat anything I say.
‘You might know him,’ I say. ‘Would that be a problem?’
‘It shouldn’t be. Everything stays professional.’
She hasn’t asked who it is. She’s like the counsellor I used to see: letting me do all the talking.
‘I’m not sure I want a divorce, though,’ I say.
She puts down her pen, and clasps her hands on the desk.
‘If you decide to go ahead, it’s best to be prepared by getting your marriage certificate, records of incomings and outgoings, preferably from both of you. Also, details of any pensions, debts. And, of course, a list of your children and their dates of birth.’
‘We’ve only the one.’
She reaches across her desk and takes one of the leaflets from a plastic holder. She hands it to me. Putting Your Children First.
The sick feeling that was in my stomach five minutes ago has reached my throat.
A timer on her desk gives a short, shrill ring.
Before she tells me that our time is up, I stand. I have to swallow before I speak.
‘My husband’s name is Jack Donnelly. Do you know him?’
This is what I came here for. I keep my eyes on her face. She frowns, opening her mouth, but it takes her a few moments to say, ‘Jack. Yes, I know him.’
She didn’t elaborate on how she knew Jack, but I hadn’t expected her to confess, either. She had given me her card, and said to call if I wanted to go ahead. How unprofessional would that be, to represent me while having an affair with the other party?
I take out the card I stuffed into my pocket.
Matthew Smith. Family Law Solicitor.
It’s not hers.
I reach my car and get in quickly. I grab an empty crisp packet, just in time, and I vomit into it.
Chapter Nineteen
Monday, 14 July 1986
Debbie
It took us nearly two hours to get out of the house. When I put on my jacket the first time, Annie decided that her feed shouldn’t be in her little stomach, but all over me. After only three hours’ sleep last night, and nightmares of shadows watching me through the window, I wanted to crawl up the stairs and never come down. But I needed to visit Uncle Charlie. I haven’t been since Annie was born.
It’s so peaceful here. The only sound is of the wind chimes over the graves of the little ones gone too soon. Mum said that Mrs Taunton, one of the more outspoken parishioners, tried to get the teddies and plastic windmills banned from the cemetery. But Father Matthew put a stop to her petition. ‘There’s enough to protest about these days,’ he said, ‘without upsetting those poor parents any further.’
I’d like to be buried here. Though that’s a bit morbid, isn’t it? I’m sitting on a bench facing the row of children’s headstones. They’re in front of Charlie’s. I know all their names by heart, and every one of them is tended. There are no dead flowers or soggy cards, unlike some of the older ones behind them.
I used to see a woman visiting Albert Jenkins’ grave every time I came here at two o’clock on a Monday. It was months between me last seeing her, and her name being added under Albert’s – a fresh mound of earth on top. I didn’t like to think of her, the woman with a twinkle in her eye, lying under the heavy soil. It didn’t seem right. Lilian, she was called. I only found that out from her gravestone. I should’ve said hello to her, at least once.
Uncle Charlie’s grave always has flowers on it. Mum comes every Sunday after Mass, ‘To visit them all,’ she says. I never met my grandmother or my grandfather. They’d been dead years before I was born. Poor Mum and Charlie, losing their parents so young. My grandfather had been a piano teacher: one of the few little details I know about him because it’s so unlike anyone in our family to play the piano. ‘It’s something only wealthy folk do,’ Dad used to say, ‘’cos they’ve got too much time on their hands.’
I reach under the pram for the three roses I snipped from the bush in our front garden (probably planted by the people who rented it before us). I leave Annie in her pram, next to the other children and make my way towards Charlie.
I place two on my grandparents’ grave, before putting the other stem into Charlie’s vase. I wipe the bits of mud from the year of his birth.
‘All better now.’
I look around; there’s no one else here.
‘Now what’s all this business of you talking to me?’
There’s silence. What else did I expect?
‘You’re going to get me into trouble. The men in white coats are going to cart me off.’
A breeze blows across my face.
‘I’ll have to get going, Uncle Charlie.’
I stand and look over to Annie’s pram.
There’s a man crouching over it. Where the hell did he come from?
‘Hey!’ I shout.
My feet are unsteady as I run towards her pram. I’m running over graves, whispering, ‘Sorry.’
The man stands.
‘Nathan?’ I blink several times. ‘What are you doing here? Why are you dressed like that?’
He’s usually in a shirt and tie during the day, but he’s wearing a black tracksuit with white stripes down the side.
‘I’ve just been jogging,’ he says.
‘Oh. You must have run a fair bit – it’s miles from your work.’
His eyebrows rise, and he looks at his watch – it’s different to the one he wore the other day. He used to love that expensive watch.
‘Yes, I suppose it is. Must’ve got carried away.’
I pull the pram handles towards me. Annie’s eyes are open; she’s awake, staring at the sky.
‘I didn’t wake her,’ he says. ‘She was already like that. You should be more careful, leaving her like that.’
‘I was only over there, it’s—’
‘Hey.’ He raises his hands in front of him. ‘I was only joking.’
‘Hmm.’ I get a wet wipe from the changing bag and clean the mud from my hands. ‘Did you kn
ow I’d be here?’
‘What? No, of course not. How would I know that?’
I shrug. ‘Did you know Monica met up with Peter in town?’
I don’t know why I’m mentioning it – I’m trying to forget about it.
He frowns. ‘No,’ he says. ‘Why would they meet on their own?’
‘To talk about the holiday, probably.’ I look at the ground. Monica’s right: I’m rubbish at lying. ‘Anyway. Shouldn’t you be getting back?’ I look at my wrist, but I’ve forgotten my watch. ‘Oh no, what’s the time?’
‘Three o’clock.’
‘I’ve got to get Bobby in half an hour.’
‘I could give you a lift if you want?’
‘It’s okay. If I walk quickly, I should make it. Bye, Nathan.’
It’s difficult to run while pushing a pram. I’m not that far from school, but I like to be early. It feels as though everyone’s staring at me. Being unable to use my arms means that I’m panting by the time I get to the gates. Cue the dirty looks from the immaculate mothers. You’d think I was brandishing a chainsaw from the glances I’m getting.
I look down at my clothes. Okay, muddy knees on my jeans from the cemetery, but otherwise nothing inappropriate. Shoes on, top buttoned. My hair’s probably a mess, but when isn’t it these days?
I reach into my bag for my sunglasses, so I can look at them without them seeing. There are no muddy patches or stains on their clothes. Their hairstyles are almost identical – all layered, either in the style of Princess Diana or Farah Fawcett, which says it all, really. They wouldn’t know Blondie if she were standing in front of them.
Another member of their clan jogs up to them in her sports outfit, complete with leg warmers and a head band. Bloody hell – she thinks she’s Jane Fonda.
I quickly look at my nails as she catches me grinning at her outfit. She actually tuts. I doubt she’s run that far anyway; she’s not even sweating.
Nathan.
He wasn’t sweating either.
No, I’m reading too much into it.
I could give you a lift if you want?
He hadn’t been jogging at all.
Everything’s strange – it’s like I’m watching an episode of Tales of the Unexpected. When I got home from school with Bobby, Peter was in the kitchen making spaghetti bolognese.
11 Missed Calls Page 11