11 Missed Calls

by Elisabeth Carpenter

  I suppose I could go to the bar myself, but it’s a tradition now. Peter says it’s lazy, but I’ve just had a baby – I’m practically an invalid.

  And he’s not here anyway, so I can do what I want.

  Before I left the house, I went to prepare a few bottles for Annie, but Peter had already made up four and put them in the fridge. Making me feel useless, again. Since when had he learned how to do all of that? Monica, probably. She must’ve been giving him lessons. She was probably the one who tidied our kitchen the other day. I won’t tell her I’m onto them. Have to keep one step ahead.

  If Peter saw me now, I’d tell him that I’m happy.

  Right now, at this precise time, in this actual moment.

  Time.

  I look at my watch. It says eight thirty, though it could be nine thirty.

  Ah fuck it, I’m out of the house. I’m me again.

  I look down at my crap outfit. Leggings with a baggy grey top that has neon stripes across it. Neon. When did that become a thing? I’m so fat, I can’t wear anything decent any more. Monica’s wearing a denim skirt and a boob tube. Shit, even three weeks after she had Leo, she was in her old clothes.

  I should be thin too by now. I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed a meal. I must just stuff it in when no one’s looking – including my own eyes. Anyway, it’s not all love and roses and Milk Tray. Nathan’s still a bit weird about Leo, even after five years.

  ‘I’m Not in Love’ by 10cc whines its way from the jukebox. God, it’s such a depressing song. I roll my eyes at nobody. Someone should update that machine. We’ll have to stick a few fifty-pence pieces in it later. We used to take it over, boring the whole pub with Blondie on repeat.

  Monica’s coming back. I’ve got to be sensible now – pretend I can hold my drink. I used to be able to drink Peter under the table, for God’s sake.

  Sit up, Debbie.

  I shuffle my arse to the back of the seat and press my back to it.

  ‘A Slow Comfortable Screw,’ she says, setting the drinks on the table.

  ‘First time for everything.’ I put the straw to my mouth. ‘Hmm, fruity.’

  Monica crosses her legs as she sits on the little stool. She bends her body to the table and sucks from the straw without touching the glass with her hands. She must be as pissed as I am.

  ‘Not bad,’ she says. ‘Though I think I’d prefer half a lager. I’m so thirsty today.’

  ‘You’re not pregnant, are you?’

  ‘Since when has being thirsty been a symptom of pregnancy?’

  I shrug.

  ‘Anyway,’ she says. ‘It’s so good to have a night out. We haven’t done this for years.’

  ‘What do you mean? We went out loads before I got pregnant with Annie.’

  ‘I meant just us two. Like it used to be.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Do you remember those nights out on the Manx ferry nightclub? I thought we’d live like that forever. Working for the weekends – that’s what we used to say. Then we’d meet up again on the Sunday and go to the pictures.’

  ‘It feels like a lifetime ago.’

  ‘Xanadu’ sounds from the pub speakers.

  ‘What the fuck is this song about?’ I say.

  ‘No idea.’

  I want to ask her about her cosy chats with Peter, but I’m worried it’ll turn the night into something darker. Every time I look at her, I picture her kissing him. God, I can’t look at her any more.

  ‘What’s up?’ she says.

  ‘Nothing. Just looking at how much this place has changed.’

  She looks around, her nose wrinkles.

  ‘It hasn’t changed at all.’ She lifts her bum, and drags the stool closer to the table, picking up her drink, and throwing the umbrella on the table. ‘How is everything?’

  ‘You’re as subtle as a brick. Is this why you suggested the night out? So you can report back to Peter with my little secrets?’

  She almost drops her drink back down.

  ‘Where the hell did that come from?’ she says. ‘What do you mean, your little secrets? I wouldn’t tell Peter anything you told me.’

  ‘But you told him that I was hearing things, didn’t you? I told you in the café the other week. And then you went running to Peter with the latest bit of gossip.’

  ‘Debbie, I swear I didn’t tell him. Who else have you told?’

  I don’t know whether to believe her; she seems so sincere.

  ‘I haven’t told anyone else.’

  She narrows her eyes. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure.’

  There’s a hesitation in my voice. I don’t even believe myself. Did I tell Nathan the other day?

  ‘I know it’s been hard for you since Annie was born, being stuck in the house all day. But is there anything else bothering you?’

  Her eyes are wide. Is she acting? She was always so good at masking her feelings. Wasn’t she? Or was that me? God, I shouldn’t drink any more. I look at her again, squinting so I can focus on her properly. She could be lying. It could be her who wrote those letters to me.

  I grab my handbag and take out the notes, laying them on the table side by side.

  Monica bends down so she’s inches away as she reads each one.

  She scans them again before looking up at me.

  ‘Holy shit, Debbie. When did you start getting these?’

  ‘Only a few days after I got home from hospital.’

  ‘Do you recognise the handwriting?’ She picks one up and holds the letter up to her face.

  ‘No. But it’s hard to tell when it’s written in capitals like that. It could be anyone.’

  ‘Have you told anybody else about these?’

  ‘My dad, Mum, Peter.’

  ‘What did Peter say about it?’

  ‘Nothing really. He didn’t seem that interested at all.’

  ‘Has he read them?’

  ‘I … I can’t remember. I’m sure I gave them to him to read. But he sort of batted me away. I left this one on the hall table the other night, and it was still there the following morning. If he has read it, then he’s ignored it … he’s not mentioned it.’

  ‘How odd. Why didn’t you bring it up again?’ She holds up another. ‘I mean – this one is really creepy. Who does he think wants you dead?’

  ‘What makes you think a man wrote them?’

  She puts the letter down as though it’s given her an electric shock.

  ‘It’s just that … Oh, I don’t know.’ She picks up her drink and throws the straw on the table next to the discarded umbrella and downs the rest of her cocktail in one. She shivers as she places the glass on the table. ‘I know a policeman through work. Can I take this one and show it to him?’

  She picks up the last one I received. The one that mentions death. I suck up the rest of my drink.

  ‘Sure.’

  She folds it back up and puts it in her handbag.

  ‘Are you not scared, Debs?’

  I lean back against the back of the banquette.

  ‘Should I be scared? I suppose it’s made me afraid of being alone in the house, like I’m always being watched.’

  ‘Shit, Debbie. You should’ve called me as soon as you got them – as soon as you got the first one.’

  ‘But you’re in cahoots with them. You’d say I was losing it.’

  ‘What? I can’t believe you’re saying that to me. I care about you. You’re like a sister to me.’

  ‘Perhaps it was you.’

  The colour drains from her face.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It was you who told Peter that I was hearing things.’

  Her shoulders relax a little. Her chest rises as she takes a deep breath.

  ‘Okay, okay. Yes, it was me. But it’s only because I was worried.’

  ‘I can’t believe you lied to me.’

  ‘It was only a little white lie. I didn’t want it to spoil our night.’

&n
bsp; ‘Right,’ I say, picking up my jacket. ‘Right. I understand.’

  I put my arms in the sleeves and stand.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she says.

  ‘Home. I don’t want to look at your smug face any more.’ I step aside from the table. ‘With your perfect hair, your perfect clothes, your perfect life.’

  I turn to leave, but she shouts after me.

  ‘You don’t know!’ she says.

  I stop and turn around. ‘Don’t know what?’

  ‘My life is far from perfect. I think Nathan’s having an affair.’

  I shake my head at her. ‘Whatever, Monica. You just can’t stop lies spouting from that mouth of yours, can you?’

  The door slams behind me and the fresh air hits me in the face.

  It must be just after ten – it’s only just going dark and there are still loads of people on the streets. I haven’t been out in so long that the taxis aren’t in the same place any more. Everything’s a mass of lights and sounds. I don’t want to be here, but I don’t want to go home either. I’ll walk it. It’ll only take me ten minutes tops. Maybe thirty.

  I stand at the traffic lights for ages, while other people cross regardless. They mustn’t be as drunk as I am; they’re giving me funny looks. Or are they? I wait another few minutes for the lights to change, even though there aren’t any cars. Dad says you should never take safety for granted. Green cross code.

  I cross and head up the hill. This is going to take me ages. I pull my jacket around me – it’s freezing now. Why can’t we have summers like they do abroad?

  ‘All right, love?’

  I ignore the man leaving the pub to my left. The cigarette smoke billows out of the place. I inhale, and it takes me back to when we had nothing better to do than spend all day in the pub.

  There’s a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘I said, All right, love?’

  I turn slowly. ‘Oh, it’s you.’

  Dean. I can’t get away from the man.

  ‘That’s not much of a hello, is it?’ he says.

  ‘Monica should be here any minute,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah right. She’s a right bitch, she is. I don’t know why you don’t see it.’

  ‘How come you know so much about Monica?’

  He shrugs. ‘I’ve got eyes everywhere.’

  I bet you have, you slimy get, I think to myself. ‘Anyway, I’d best get on.’

  ‘Reckon you should be at home with your baby at this time of night, don’t you?’

  I turn and walk away.

  ‘Whatever,’ I mutter. ‘Caveman.’

  ‘I heard that, you know.’

  I start to run – is he following me? I daren’t turn around.

  A bus pulls into the stop across the road; I run towards it.

  Dean’s laughing to himself. ‘As if I’d chase after you, you fat cow.’

  People stare at me as I get on the bus. I want to disappear. I shouldn’t have agreed to go out – it’s safer indoors.

  I hand the driver two fifty-pence pieces and sit on the side furthest from Dean. I glance through the opposite window, but he’s not in the street any more.

  I don’t know where this bus is going – it’s not even going in the right direction to home.

  Why has everyone in this world turned strange? Monica and Peter are conspiring against me, Nathan’s following me everywhere (except tonight when I needed him), and Mum and Dad are being overprotective. What changed to make all of this happen? Are other people changing because of me?

  I’ve never felt so alone.

  I look at the reflection in the window as the bus starts off, and I see tears streaming down my face. I don’t even feel them.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Anna

  I am sitting outside the bathroom, leaning against the airing cupboard, listening to Sophie shout and squeal and splash as Jack baths her.

  After dropping Monica’s bag at the hospital, I just wanted to get home. I didn’t tell Dad about the cards and letters I found. I’m meeting Sally tomorrow to see the house next door to our old place, but that will be the last time I’m actively getting involved with this investigation. I need to sort out issues closer to home.

  Seeing the Mother’s Day cards made me realise I should have appreciated what I had with Monica instead of yearning for someone who didn’t even want me.

  Sophie tears out of the bathroom in her Paw Patrol pyjamas, her hair wet.

  ‘Mummy! You’re back!’

  ‘What are you doing creeping about?’ says Jack, smiling as he comes out of the bathroom.

  ‘I did shout hello, but you two were making a racket in there.’ I ruffle the top of Sophie’s hair. ‘And I didn’t want to disturb all that fun you were having.’

  ‘We pretended,’ says Sophie, ‘that the water in the empty shampoo bottles was wee.’

  ‘Oh, lovely.’

  ‘It wasn’t pretend,’ says Jack, winking at me. ‘It was real wee.’

  Sophie wrinkles her nose.

  ‘As if.’

  ‘As if?’ says Jack. ‘Are you six or sixteen?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Daddy. Come on.’ Sophie walks into her bedroom. ‘Read me a story.’

  I get up from the floor.

  ‘You go downstairs,’ says Jack. ‘Pour yourself a glass of wine. Then we can have a chat.’

  He doesn’t look me in the eye as he utters the last sentence. He’s trying to sound more lighthearted than he feels, I’m sure of it. Jack has never requested a chat. In the past, he’s always shuddered at the mention of a scheduled chat.

  ‘Okay,’ I say, as Sophie shouts for her daddy again. ‘I’ll see you down there.’ I turn to go downstairs. ‘Hey,’ I say. Jack pops his head around Sophie’s bedroom door. ‘Did you see a car at the end of the street tonight? A red one – a new Honda, I think. I’ve seen it around a few times recently.’

  ‘Nope,’ he says. ‘Can’t say I’ve noticed.’

  ‘I must be imagining things.’

  By the time Jack gets downstairs, the wine in my glass is warm. Going by his expression, it seems he’s looking forward to this talk as much as I am. Does he know that I found out about Francesca – that the girl he was once in love with has recently died? I have a terrible feeling of dread. Perhaps he’s beginning to re-evaluate his life now that someone he was once close to has died. Maybe he doesn’t see a future with me – thinks that life is too short to be miserable.

  ‘Is that your second?’ He points to my glass.

  I look down at it. It’s still three-quarters full.

  ‘Yes.’

  I don’t know why I’m lying; perhaps it will make it easier for him to speak freely if he thinks I’m a little bit drunk.

  ‘I’ll just get myself a glass,’ he says. ‘Sophie’s fast asleep.’

  My heart is pounding. I sit a little straighter on the sofa; smooth my hair down with the palm of my hand. I haven’t looked at my face since this morning – my make-up has probably worn off. I tiptoe to the mirror and place my wine glass on the mantelpiece. I pinch my cheeks to bring them colour – I used to see Gran do it, but this is the first time I’ve tried it and am surprised to find that it works. My lipstick has faded, but there is still a trace of eyeliner on my upper lids – at least my eyes don’t look so tired. I really should make more of an effort.

  I take a deep breath and a big gulp of wine. I almost retch, finding it hard to swallow. It’s too warm and it tastes like vinegar. I have never really liked the taste of wine – I don’t know why I pretend to. It’s like the Emperor’s new clothes, people always—

  ‘So.’ Jack’s standing at the doorway. He walks over to the chair under the window and sits. ‘I think you’d better sit down, too.’

  He pats the edge of the sofa nearest him.

  He sounds too cheerful for it to be terrible news. Doesn’t he?

  But as I sit and look at his hands, he can’t keep them still.

  ‘So,’ he says, again. He takes a
long sip of wine and stares at the floor. ‘You remember when we first got together … you had this thing about asking me all about past relationships and stuff? And I told you that I was with someone when I was at college?’

  ‘No. I didn’t think we went into details about that.’

  Have I remembered things wrong?

  ‘Okay. I thought we did.’ He shakes his head. ‘Anyway, that’s not the point … There was this girl called Francesca. She was only seventeen when we broke up – I was eighteen.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘It ended badly. She got pregnant and I said I couldn’t deal with it … I felt like a kid myself at the time. Jesus what a cliché I was. She had a termination … she hated me for it. I never saw her after that. I moved to Lancashire for university and never left. We had no reason to contact each other.’

  He pauses. He’s speaking so pragmatically.

  ‘So why are you bringing her up now?’

  ‘She died in a car accident three weeks ago.’

  I reach over to take hold of his hand. He squeezes mine before letting it go.

  ‘The thing is, Anna, is that … God this is so hard.’

  He puts a hand through his hair.

  ‘Go on.’

  My heart is thumping; my legs feel numb.

  ‘Her brother told me that she got together with someone else pretty quickly after I left … but really, she was seeing him at the same time she was seeing me … You can see where this is going, can’t you?’

  I think I’m going to be sick.

  ‘Just tell me, Jack,’ I say quickly. ‘I’m not going to try and guess.’

  He takes another deep breath.

  ‘Francesca had the baby.’

  ‘What?’

  I put my wine glass down before I drop it.

  ‘She never told me. My parents moved to the south coast when I left – I had no contacts in the area.’

  ‘You have another child?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘When Francesca was in hospital … after the accident … just before she died … she told her brother that the father of her son – it was a boy – was one of two people. The bloke she went out with after me … or during, whatever … didn’t have anything to do with the baby.’

  ‘Oh God, that poor child.’

  ‘He didn’t know any different, from what her brother Simon was telling me the other day. Francesca’s family have been there for him, thank God.’