What She Left

by Rosie Fiore

  ‘No?’

  ‘This is something much. . . much more complicated. I don’t want to go into it. . .’

  ‘Come on, Tim.’ I laughed. ‘You think you have a sex life that’s complicated? I’ve got a doctorate in complex sex lives.’

  ‘This isn’t sex!’ he burst out sharply, and I stopped, surprised.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s not sex. It’s something. . . else.’

  ‘Else?’

  ‘Like. . . friendship,’ he said, but his tone was unconvincing, as if this wasn’t the word he would have chosen.

  ‘Like a meeting of minds?’

  ‘No. I mean, I don’t understand her any better than I understand any women, but. . .’

  ‘You want to?’

  ‘I want to help her. And that’s new for me. Wanting to help someone without getting anything in return.’

  ‘Well, dear brother, that sounds suspiciously like love. When do we get to meet this amazing woman?’

  He laughed. ‘Oh, never. You know me. I’ll fuck it up and it’ll all be over before you know it.’ He moved swiftly to change the subject. ‘Never mind me though. I wasn’t going to put you on the spot at Mum and Dad’s, but am I right in thinking that the Lara that rescued Miranda’s birthday party is the sexy redhead from the Bell and Anchor?’

  ‘The same,’ I said reluctantly.

  ‘The hot single mother who totally blanked me and gazed at you like you were an adorable puppy?’

  ‘On the night after we found out Helen had disappeared on purpose? I think, if she felt anything for me, it was pity.’

  ‘Pity can work.’

  ‘You see? That was it.’

  ‘That was what?’

  ‘The tipping point. You just turned into the creepy old guy.’

  Tim let out a bellow of laugher. ‘So. You and Lara? Something going to happen there?’

  ‘I don’t fucking know, do I?’ I said, checking my beer bottle, which was mysteriously empty. ‘I mean, why should she come anywhere near me? I’m a fuck-up, an emotional wreck, living at the bottom of my overdraft with two traumatized children, a budding drink problem and a ten-year-old Ford.’

  ‘And the beginnings of a dad bod,’ Tim said, pointing at my soft belly. ‘Letting yourself go there, bro.’

  ‘Yeah, well,’ I said self-consciously, heaving myself out of the armchair and heading for the kitchen to get another beer. I brought one back for Tim too, even though his first bottle was still a third full.

  We sat drinking in comfortable silence for a while, and then he said gently, ‘It might not be a bad thing, Samster. Even if it isn’t a serious relationship. Just some companionship. Sex. Getting back on the horse, if you like.’

  ‘That’s all fine and well for me, but what about her?’

  ‘She’s a grown-up girl. Let her make her own mind up.’

  ‘Not fair to tie her to a basket-case though.’ I wondered how much I could tell him – about my anger, my late-night despair, the fact that only booze stopped me from exploding with fury. In the end I said, ‘I’m still having the occasional meltdown. I am so, so not over this Helen thing.’

  ‘It’s not surprising though, is it?’ Tim said. ‘It was a fucking awful shock. And it’s not like you get to confront her and yell at her, or even ask her why she did it. She’s just gone.’

  ‘Exactly.’ I was surprised at how much he understood. Tim, who had never had a long-term relationship in his life. ‘I fantasize about terrible things. I dream constantly about her. About screaming at her, hurting her even. . .’

  ‘I don’t think that’s surprising. I don’t think even Mum would be shocked by that. What does your therapist say?’

  ‘My therapist? Oh. . . I only go for the family sessions. . . And I’m scarcely going to talk about wanting to strangle Helen in front of the girls, am I?’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be seeing someone separately? Just for you, I mean?’

  ‘Maybe. But I can’t afford it. Not the time or the money.’

  ‘But. . .’

  ‘I have to get on with my life,’ I said, drinking deeply from my bottle. ‘When Leonora died, I got the full works – grief counselling, help from Mum and Dad, help from you, and then Helen came along and was the answer to all my prayers. She swooped in, all clean and strong and organized and stable, and saved me from my grief. And look how that turned out. She disappeared. No warning. Nothing. Just gone.’

  I was horrified at the bitterness of my tone. I’d accused Tim of being ‘that guy’, but there was another kind of ‘that guy’ too, and I didn’t want to be him. I didn’t want to be the guy who was twisted with hatred and resentment, who distrusted everyone. I think I horrified Tim too, because he was silent for the longest time. We listened to the distant hum of traffic and a faint hooting sound, which might have been an owl, or a faraway car alarm.

  Eventually Tim said quietly, ‘And you have no idea why? None at all?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘As far as you were concerned, you were happy?’

  ‘Yeah, sure. I mean, we weren’t in the first flush of love or anything. When you have a house and kids and work, things can get a bit. . .’ I looked for the right words. ‘Pedestrian. Business-like.’

  Tim raised an eyebrow. That was exactly why he’d always avoided long-term commitment, I knew.

  ‘I go over and over it in my head,’ I continued. ‘And yes, maybe she was feeling. . . neglected. I travelled for work a lot. I worked long hours. Maybe I wasn’t always. . .’ I trailed off.

  ‘Always what?’

  ‘I don’t know. Present. Helen was so in control of the whole home thing – looking after the girls, running the house. I guess I left her to it. Took her for granted.’ I thought of saying more, but I’d never spoken explicitly to Tim about the fact that I slept with other women. I wasn’t about to say something now. Even though Tim had some pretty low standards for himself, I had a feeling he held me to higher ones.

  ‘You’re not the first guy to have been a bit unromantic,’ he said. ‘But let’s face it, it was a hell of a thing she took on,’ he continued carefully, ‘treating your kids as her own, giving up her career. . .’

  ‘I know,’ I said, and my tone was harsh. ‘I bloody know. And I was grateful to her every day. I know she knew that.’

  ‘She was very career-minded when you first met, wasn’t she?’

  ‘I suppose so. We both were. For the first year or so we juggled the family and work thing between us, but then, as you know, we had a major round of redundancies and Helen lost her job. I kept mine, and got a promotion. It was the right thing for her to stay home with the girls. And for a good few years it all worked out fine.’

  Tim nodded, satisfied, but the words sounded hollow in my own ears. ‘The right thing’. ‘All worked out fine’. It had been a little more complicated than that. It hadn’t been as simple as Helen losing her job and me keeping mine.

  The atmosphere in the company had been tense. Redundancies make people very jumpy, and when Chris had called me into the boardroom, I’d expected the worst. But what he said was that, with the restructure, there was a senior account manager position opening up.

  ‘It’s going to mean long hours,’ he said, ‘and quite a lot of travel. But I know with your circumstances. . .’ I nodded. He pressed on. ‘Tell me how to make this work, Sam. I want to give this to you. You’re highly qualified, and the clients love you. I reckon you could turn things around, and with the commission structure, you could double your salary.’

  There was a long, difficult silence. He was going to make me say it. ‘I know you’re going to be making some cuts in the marketing department,’ I said hesitantly. ‘Totally off the record, what are your plans for Helen?’

  ‘I could get sued for having this conversation,’ Chris said. He was sweating. He went on, haltingly. ‘Hypothetically, and totally off the record, I have to lose two of the four people on the marketing team. Helen’s our best pe
rformer. . .’

  ‘But the most expensive.’

  ‘Yes, the most expensive,’ he admitted.

  ‘Hypothetically though, if Helen wasn’t working and was able to help me with the girls at home. . .’

  ‘You’d bring in more revenue for the company, and you’d earn enough to compensate for what she’s earning now.’

  ‘So. . .’ I nudged Chris, curious to see where he was going with this.

  He shifted in his chair. He’d initiated the exchange, but it was making him very uncomfortable indeed. ‘Well, she’s been with us for slightly less than two years. I could offer her the two-year redundancy package to sweeten the deal. Do you think she’d go for it?’

  ‘And have the chance to support me in my promotion?’ I mused. ‘I think so. She loves me. She wants me to succeed.’

  There was a long, long pause.

  ‘This conversation can never leave this room, Sam. I’m serious,’ said Chris, mopping his brow.

  ‘What conversation?’ I asked innocently.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Lara

  Inevitably, a few hours before we were due to go for dinner, Jonah got ill. He’d been a little off colour in the early part of the week, and by Thursday he was lying on his tummy on the sofa, listless and hot, his cheeks red and his nose streaming. It wasn’t anything serious – a nasty virus – but he definitely wasn’t up to going out in the cold. I’d have to cancel, or postpone. I was surprised how disappointed I felt.

  I texted Sam on Friday morning: ‘So gutted to have to cancel – Jonah has a bad cold.’

  He replied immediately: ‘Oh no! Was so looking forward to it.’

  I was touched and surprised. ‘Me too,’ I replied before I lost my nerve.

  ‘Who are you texting so furiously?’ asked Mum.

  ‘Sam,’ I said. ‘Just letting him know we can’t make dinner tonight.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Mum, looking up from her newspaper.

  ‘Jonah. He’s much too sick to go out.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Mum’s attitude to sick children is somewhat harsher than mine. ‘You’re probably right. He’ll be a misery guts. Well, don’t worry. You go. Take Frances. I’ll stay home with Junior Snotbucket.’

  ‘What? No. I can’t leave him.’

  ‘Course you can,’ said Mum practically. ‘I’ll dose him up with ibuprofen. He’ll be asleep half an hour after you leave. I can ring you if he gets bad. But he won’t. He’ll be fine.’

  ‘I’ve already cancelled,’ I said weakly.

  ‘So uncancel. Go and have fun. You and Frances never get a girls’ night out.’

  It wouldn’t strictly be a girls’ night, though, would it? Sam would be there. Still, Mum was being so generous. And I had been looking forward to it, as, I think, had Frances. After the party, Miranda had been a little nicer to her and they had been hanging out together at playtime.

  ‘Okay, Mum, thanks,’ I said, and I picked up my phone and rang Sam. ‘Hi,’ I said quickly when he answered, sounding surprised. ‘Does the invitation still hold? Mum’s said she’ll stay home with Jonah so Frances and I can come.’

  ‘That’d be fabulous!’ He sounded genuinely happy. ‘Sad your mum won’t be with us though, she’s such fun.’

  At six o’clock Frances and I walked down the road and caught the bus towards the high street. Sam had chosen a local Chinese restaurant. We’d never eaten there, but Frances had heard from friends that there was a gigantic fish tank in the restaurant with actual piranhas. She’d chosen a sunshine-yellow dress and a neat cardigan. She looked tall and slender and grown-up. I could see she’d made an effort to look nice, and I felt a tiny pang in my heart. I was glad I was able to give her this evening out after all.

  My darling Frances is a careful, shy girl. She’s not one for forming close, passionate friendship bonds, as so many little girls do. She tends to hang back. She has friends, and she’s kind and quietly confident, so she’s generally popular. But she doesn’t let any of them get too close. I know, deep down, that this is the fault of her feckless father, and it is another on a long, long list of reasons why I want to punch him.

  In the old days, she would never have made friends with a girl like Miranda, who was undoubtedly the Alpha Girl in their class, centre of the most popular group. Frances sometimes hung around on the periphery of that set, but I think she knew instinctively that the stakes were high for the girls in those exalted social circles, and that someone who was your best friend one day might cut you stone-dead the next, in the interests of social climbing.

  But since Helen’s disappearance, it seems Miranda hasn’t been quite the star she once was. Her status has fallen due to their changed circumstances. Without Helen as the centre of the mums’ social circle, without the endless round of social events that sprung from Helen’s community work, Miranda’s weekly whirl of play dates and extra-curricular events has largely fallen away. She goes to netball and dance at school, but I know that with Sam at work, many of her out-of-school classes like ballet and flute have had to stop. And secondly, the girls don’t know how to talk to her. What are they supposed to say? Most adults don’t know what to say. How are nine-year-old girls supposed to have the answer?

  Frances has said in passing that Miranda is angry a lot of the time. At playtime and in class she shouts at people if they don’t do things the way she wants them done. She’s always been a perfectionist, but it seems to have got worse. It’s made her less likely to be included in group activities, which has naturally made her even angrier. I know Sam kept Miranda’s birthday party small for logistical and financial reasons, but I think he might also have struggled to persuade more than those six girls to risk the sharp edge of Miranda’s tongue.

  But after the slightly odd success of the party, things have improved for her. Those six girls have been kinder to her, and she’s been, according to Frances, a bit happier and nicer to be around.

  ‘I’m looking forward to seeing Miranda tonight,’ she said suddenly, as the bus went over the crest of the hill. ‘She’s reading those Dragon Rainbowfire books too, and she said she’d lend me the next one.’

  ‘That sounds good, love,’ I said.

  We’d managed to bag the front seats on the top deck of the bus. It was a lovely evening, crisp and autumnal and the sky was clear. I was with my girl and we were going for dinner with friends. I took the smallest guilty pleasure in the fact that Jonah wasn’t with us – the girls were all old enough to sit politely at the table and talk, and I wouldn’t be spending my evening chasing a boisterous three-year-old between the tables. It was going to be a civilized, almost grown-up evening. I felt a little bubble of happiness.

  When we got off the bus, I smoothed the front of my blouse and Frances glanced up at me.

  ‘You look good, Mum,’ she said, eyeing me appraisingly.

  ‘Thanks, honey.’ I smiled.

  ‘No, you do,’ she insisted. ‘You’ve normally only got two ways of dressing – posh for work or scruffy for home. And this is something in between. It’s nice.’

  Her scrutiny made me self-conscious, and I pulled my cardigan tightly around myself as we walked into the restaurant. Sam, Miranda and Marguerite were sitting at a big round table towards the back of the room. Sam stood when he saw us, and his grin was warm and welcoming. We went over to the table and Frances slipped in next to Miranda. Immediately, their heads came together and they began to whisper urgently. Sam put a hand on my arm and I saw him hesitate, and then he leaned in to kiss my cheek. He was clean-shaven, with a hint of lemony aftershave, but I also caught the bready note of beer from his skin. We all sat down. He and the girls had drinks already, and he hailed a waiter to get something for Frances and me. I briefly wondered if I should stick to water but then felt momentarily reckless and ordered a glass of Pinot Grigio. Live on the edge, I say.

  Frances and Miranda were oblivious to us, talking in low, intense tones about whatever issue was utterly pressing right that minute. Sam had brought a notebook
for Marguerite, who was happy to sit quietly beside him and draw, as long as every now and then he took the time for her to describe her picture to him. That left Sam and me in a position where we could actually have a grown-up conversation. It should have been great, but somehow I couldn’t think of a single thing to say. I had hardly spoken to Sam one to one – why would I? We’d passed the time at the school gates on the rare occasions he’d been there to drop the girls off or pick them up. I’d seen him socially with Helen a few times. But a long, continuous conversation? We’d never had that. I was also conscious of the great swathes of things we couldn’t talk about. I don’t think I’d have talked to him about Helen anyway, even if we’d been alone, but talking to him about her in front of the girls would have been unnecessarily cruel, and potentially awkward.

  I had little idea about what he did at work – something in advertising, I thought? I knew nothing about that, and I was sure he had no interest in the world of pub management. I didn’t have a clue if he had any hobbies, or what they might be. Could I try talking about music? Sport? Politics? It was a long time since I’d been out for the evening with a man. I was desperately out of practice.

  Sam was ill at ease too. When he did have a go at making halting conversation, he struggled to meet my eye, glancing at me briefly and then focusing over my shoulder, looking at the people in the restaurant and the street outside the window. It made me feel even more awkward. I was boring him to tears. Despite Frances’ kind words, I was conscious of my faded blouse and jeans, my hair being in need of a trim and my lack of sparkling chatter. Helen would have had a million easy conversation openers. She’d have been perfectly, elegantly dressed, and she’d also have managed to bring brilliant educational but fun activities for the kids too. I slumped a little in my chair, overwhelmed by my un-Helen-ness. Poor Sam, I thought. I bet he’s regretting this dinner invitation now.

  We’d covered the weather and what we’d done that week, and the conversation dwindled to another awkward silence. I cast about for something to say. ‘What are you drawing, Marguerite?’ I began brightly, just as Sam said something too.