by Ruth Jones
‘Hello, my gorgeous girl!’ And she showered her with kisses.
‘Daddy said I could stay up to see you!’
‘So I see!’ Over Tallulah’s shoulder Kate winked at Matt, once again flooring him with an unexpected show of affection. ‘Hello, Hetty, what a joy to see you!’
Hetty got up and gave Kate a hug. ‘Aw, happy birthday. I bought you a cactus.’
‘Blimey – are you trying to tell me something?’
‘What? No. It’s quite unusual, I just thought you’d …’
‘Relax, Het, I’m joking.’
‘Hetty’s also brought us some vegan wine.’
‘Which is really rather shocking,’ Hetty said, slightly shame-faced.
Kate laughed and passed Tallulah over to their friend. ‘Well, I’ve got something slightly better than that …’ She went back into the hall and returned with two bottles of Cristal champagne. ‘And there’s another four where they came from!’
‘Kate, that’s too much!’ Matt protested.
‘Yes, I’ve got work in the morning and I don’t think I should have any more!’ Hetty was panicking.
‘We don’t have to drink all of it, silly. Production gave it to me as a present. Thought we could have a little party – this is the last year of my thirties, after all!’ She went to the cabinet and took out three elegant champagne flutes.
Matt raised his eyebrows at Hetty in a look that was an obvious comment on the unpredictability of his wife. ‘Oh well, Het – in for a penny!’
‘That’s the spirit!’ And Kate popped the champagne cork, which blasted up to the ceiling with firework speed, eliciting a little yelp from Hetty and Tallulah, followed by a peal of giggles.
‘Mummy, can I have some?’
‘Daddy will give you a special glass, won’t you, Daddy?’
And on cue, Matt got up and made for the Tupperware cupboard, pulling out a glamorous pink plastic cocktail glass and duly filling it with lemonade whilst Kate charged the champagne flutes. ‘I’m sorry about today. I was just so exhausted.’
‘Are you feeling better now, Kate?’ asked Hetty nervously.
‘I will when I’ve had this. Bottoms up!’ And she downed her champagne in one before proceeding to refill her glass.
Hetty glanced unnoticed at Matt, and detected a hint of sadness flash across his face before it transformed into a big smile and he announced, ‘Happy birthday, darling!’
‘Ha! Yes, happy birthday to me!’ They all took a sip, followed by a moment’s awkward silence, broken by Kate. ‘Ooh, and we’re celebrating something else tonight.’
‘Are we?’
Kate took another drink, inwardly finding strength to break the news. ‘Yes, it looks like I’ve found the funds to pay for our new shower room – well, to part-pay for it anyway.’
‘Overtime?’ Matt asked. Tallulah was now ensconced on his lap, her short-lived excitement fading and sleep once again defeating her.
‘Not quite. I’ve got a PA.’
‘She means a personal appearance,’ Matt explained to Hetty.
‘Yes. Not a terribly glamorous one. I’ve been asked to open a casino.’
‘Sounds glamorous to me,’ said Hetty, the champagne bubbles rushing up her nose and making her light-headed.
‘Well, the fee is certainly glamorous – they’re going to pay me ten grand!’
‘Blimey!’ Matt reached for the bottle and topped up his glass.
‘The downside is, they want me tomorrow night.’
Matt absorbed the information, annoyed that once again their weekend would be disrupted by Kate’s work schedule. ‘Bit last-minute, isn’t it?’
‘Ha! You don’t think I was first choice, do you? They wanted Sarah Lancashire, but she dropped out, and apparently I was their second choice.’
‘Well, more fool her!’ offered Hetty, raising her glass in a solitary toast.
‘Exactly. Matt, d’you think you should take her up?’ Kate indicated the now sleeping Tallulah, her head resting on Matt’s shoulder, her mouth half open.
‘Yeah, I will in a minute.’ He had the distinct impression that Kate was holding something back. ‘So where is it? This unglamorous casino.’
Kate took another over-zealous drink, swallowing down her nerves with a big dose of Cristal before finding the courage to say, ‘Edinburgh. I’m going back to Edinburgh.’
1985
20
‘You’re off yer head, man!’ Callum said, emptying the contents of an ashtray into a bucket and dusting it clean with the paintbrush reserved especially for the gruesome task.
It was a Saturday night in mid September and although Callum had started back at school, he still helped out in the pub at weekends. They’d closed up for the night, and it was just him and Fergus. Who was airing his suspicions.
‘But I’ve seen the way she looks at you, Cal. Sly little glances, always laughing at your jokes.’
‘Can’t help it if I’m hysterically funny,’ he tried to appease him.
But Fergus was having none of it. ‘I’m not stupid. And Belinda most certainly isn’t.’
Callum put down the ashtray and looked at him. ‘For Christ’s sake, I thought you were kidding! She’s in her twenties!’
‘So?’
‘Read my lips: there is nothing going on between me and Kate … Whatever-Her-Name-Is … Andrews.’ He looked hard at his older brother, defying him to doubt further.
Eventually Fergus looked away and carried on totalling up the till, whilst Callum took the bucket of fags and ash out to the bin behind the back door. As they passed each other, Callum said, ‘Listen, I get on with the girl, she’s bright, she’s a laugh. But that’s all, I promise.’
Fergus nodded and smiled weakly. ‘OK, I believe you.’ He waited a moment. ‘So I’ll see you tomorrow night?’
Callum nodded and headed out, turning at the door. ‘Oh, it’s me and her down on the rota – I can swap if it’ll make you feel better?’
‘I said I believed you, didn’t I? Now fuck off.’ He threw a damp cloth at Callum, who laughed and ducked. But after he’d gone, Fergus was left with a gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Twenty minutes later, when Callum met with Kate in the little side street off the marketplace as arranged, he was distracted.
‘I can’t stay,’ he told her. ‘Get in, I’ll drop you back home.’
They were meant to go to their secret place, a dead-end lane they’d discovered only five minutes out of town. But Callum didn’t want sex; his conversation with Fergus had unnerved him.
‘He doesn’t miss a thing,’ he complained. ‘I dunno, maybe we should cool things for a few days, just let the dust settle.’
The thought of not seeing him knocked Kate off balance for a moment. ‘We don’t need to do that,’ she said calmly.
‘Kate, for God’s sake, you’ve got nothing to lose here. I’ve got everything.’
‘So let me solve it then.’ And she smiled her wicked smile, and his bad mood instantly evaporated.
True to her word, the next night at the pub Kate caused a stir that convinced Fergus that Callum had been telling the truth, after all. Shortly after they opened at six, in walked a group of lads, all sun-tanned and sandy, with shaggy hair and toned biceps. They sat at a corner table whilst one of their crowd headed for the bar to order the drinks.
When Kate saw him, she squealed with delight – ‘Oh my God! Oh my GOD!’ – lifted the bar hatch and ran towards him.
He picked her up, swung her round and then kissed her full on the lips. There weren’t many customers in the pub at that point, just Jackie Legg and Stuey Jameson, and one or two tourists – but those who were there stared open-mouthed at the spectacle.
When they finally stopped kissing, Kate said, ‘When did you get back?’
‘Couple of hours ago. Thought I’d surprise you.’
Kate looked at him for a few seconds longer, then turned, holding his hand, and led him up to the bar.
&
nbsp; ‘Fergus, Callum, this is Jake. My boyfriend.’
‘Hello!’ Fergus said, bemused.
Callum didn’t know where to put himself and managed to mutter a ‘Pleased to meet you,’ holding out his hand to shake. Jake, a bit thrown by this, turned it into a high five and the moment became very awkward.
‘He’s been travelling. Just got back!’ Kate said, before turning to Jake. ‘You’re so wicked. Why didn’t you tell me!’ And she kissed him, whispering loudly enough for the others to hear, ‘God, I’ve missed you!’
Fergus, feeling a little swept along with the whole thing, suddenly announced, ‘Look, I don’t think we’re gonna be busy tonight, and me and Callum can cope, can’t we, Cal?’
‘Er … yeah.’ Callum seemed preoccupied with the glass-washer, stacking glasses as if there was a mad rush of customers desperate to be served.
‘Why don’t you take the night off?’
Kate’s eyes lit up. ‘Really?’
‘Yeah, go on, looks like you two have got some catching up to do!’
Callum couldn’t look at Kate, who now had her head tucked into Jake’s shoulder.
‘Thing is, Fergie, that’s very kind of you, but I really need the dosh … Tell you what, how about me and Jake go off for a couple of hours and I’ll come back around eight?’
‘Aye, go on then, seems like a good compromise.’
They watched Kate leave the pub, arm in arm with Jake. Fergus shook his head and chuckled. ‘Well, that was a turn-up for the books! I take back everything I said!’
Callum managed to smile, but inside he found himself ludicrously and uncharacteristically eaten up with jealousy.
When Kate did come back as promised, just after eight, Callum couldn’t bring himself to speak to her. She found it all highly amusing, and when she finally cornered him alone in the beer cellar – free now to come and go as they pleased, free from all suspicion in Fergus’s doubting eyes – Callum’s passion was fired up.
‘So, d’you fuck him?’
‘Babe …?’ His anger didn’t scare her. Far from it. In fact, it turned her on – this new possessive side of Callum.
‘Of course not! We sat on the beach, that’s all. And talked for an hour.’
‘But I watched you kiss him!’
‘Er, duh! We were acting? That was the point, stupid!’
‘Was it as good as this?’
And he pressed his mouth against hers, enveloping her in an angry, consuming kiss, stamping his territory and leaving her in no doubt about how he felt. She responded, her hand searching to feel how hard she’d made him, before breaking away to leave him wanting more. She loved how desperate he was for her. The power she held over him.
‘Jake’s a friend of mine from drama college,’ she whispered. ‘I dared him to do it …’ And she flicked her tongue along the curve of his ear, sucking gently on the lobe, her hot breath making him want her even more. ‘I’m a good actress, don’t you think?’
He conceded with a nod. But inside he didn’t like how he’d behaved, or what he was becoming. This just wasn’t him.
‘Look, I’m sorry. It freaked me out, that’s all, seeing you with someone else. Even if it was a set-up.’
‘Hey,’ she said, lightening the mood, ‘at least you’ll get no more accusations from your brother – he was well and truly convinced.’ And she walked back to the bar, smiling as she savoured her little victory.
21
Nineteen-year-old Matthew Fenton let himself into room 125 of Benfield Hall and tried to hide his dismay. ‘As you can see, you’ve basically got everything you need in one small space,’ said the steward (whose name, weirdly, was Stewart). ‘You’ve got your desk overlooking the grounds, you’ve got your cupboard for your clothes, you’ve got your bed – obviously.’ Stewart laughed at this, it was part of the patter that he gave to all Freshers who moved into Benfield. ‘And the pièce de résistance, your very own sink. With mirror! At no extra cost!’
Matt was now regretting having left it so late in the day to choose his accommodation. The university was a campus one, so most students would be living in halls like these – but surely he could have done better than this?
‘Its design is based on a Swedish women’s prison! Ha! Weren’t expecting that, now were you?’
Actually, Matt thought to himself as he surveyed the sparse room with its insultingly narrow bed, I can well believe it is.
He put his suitcase on the bed and his guitar next to the sink. Stewart nodded towards it. ‘D’you play?’ he asked, affecting the persona of someone in the music industry.
Matt was sorely tempted to say, No, I just carry one round with me so I can look like a wanker, but managed to resist and said, ‘Just a bit.’
‘Well, check out the Guitar Society at Freshers’ Fair. You’ll meet a few like-minded people, no doubt – maybe set yourselves up for a bit of a jam.’
‘Right.’ Matt tried to sound keen. But the thought of joining any society or even speaking to another human being for the three years he was here filled him with utter dread. He was going to hate them all, he knew it.
Stewart was about to leave when he remembered something. ‘Oh, by the way, History of Art, right?’
‘Er, yeah.’
‘Girl down the corridor in 135, same course as you. You might want to hook up. See ya!’
The last thing Matt wanted to do was ‘hook up’ with anyone. He just wanted to be left to his own devices and was starting to think university was a big mistake. He’d spent a year touring Europe – bought the predictable Inter-rail ticket, but had set off on his own, not with a gang of mates. Not for him the booze-soaked, sun-drenched Greek islands or Spanish coastline: Matt sought out the galleries of Rome and Paris, the art trails of Holland and Germany. His passion for art was like an addiction: he needed it, thrived on it. And the only reasons he’d signed up for a History of Art degree were a) to please his parents, and b) because he wasn’t so arrogant that he didn’t think there was much more to learn. But it was this socializing bit that bugged him. Mixing with strangers, all that bonhomie and ra-ra-ra. He was a regular comprehensive kid from Rotherham. His family were no great shakes, he was no great shakes – he just had this thirst for learning, which he needed to quench. Freshers’ Fair and fake friendships were not part of the plan.
He lay back on his bed. His mother would be so disappointed if he pulled out now. ‘Just give it two weeks,’ she’d said to him before he left – he’d refused to let her come with him. Didn’t want to be like all those other kids, caught in that awful place between trying to be an independent adult and terrified of cutting the apron strings by actually saying goodbye to their mums and dads. Having had that year out made it easier to do this on his own. He sighed, then gave himself an imaginary kick up the arse, stood up and opened his wardrobe. Seven sad hangers jangled a feeble hello. He unlocked his case and tried to muster the enthusiasm to unpack.
A knock. Was it Stewart returning with more advice? Matt thought about not answering, but realized he’d never get away with it. He was, after all, living in a female open prison of sorts …
He opened the door. There in the corridor, brandishing an open tin of misshapen cakes, was a girl dressed in a white cheesecloth shirt, 1940s waistcoat, dirndl skirt, and leg-warmers over cowboy boots. An odd combination. Her hair was badly permed and she’d drawn shiny green eyeliner under her eyelashes. ‘Rock cake?’ She thrust the tin at him.
‘Er …’
But before he could answer, she was talking again. Really fast.
‘The Steward chappy, Stewart, suggested I said hello. We’re on the same course. Not me and Stewart – he’s doing a PhD – in Physics, I think – no, you and me. So here I am. Saying hello. I brought rock cakes with me – my mother thought they’d be a good ice-breaker. More of a good tooth-breaker, to be honest. I’m not the best of bakers.’
He looked at her. Silence.
‘Oh, and I’m Hetty,’ she blurted out. ‘I’m middle-clas
s, live in Hampstead, and I don’t really understand the Miners’ Strike. And I’m a vegetarian.’
Matt smiled at her, bewildered. ‘I’ve never met one of those before,’ he said. And an instant friendship was formed.
Later that night they walked back together from the Milking Parlour, the bar nearest to Benfield Hall. They’d already discussed the obligatory A-level results, pets and parents, and now Hetty wanted to talk about weight. But Matt said he’d never stood on weighing scales in his life and wouldn’t have the first idea how much he weighed.
‘I’m ten stone two,’ Hetty announced.
‘You’re mistaking me for someone who cares?’ he laughed.
‘OK, tell me something about yourself that nobody else would know,’ Hetty said suddenly.
Matt was caught off guard. ‘Oh, right, OK. Well, I don’t really want to be here, and I doubt I’ll last the week.’
Hetty didn’t answer straight away. ‘That’s a shame,’ she said. ‘But you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do.’
He felt an unexpected respect for her when she said this. Hetty was … well, she was OK. Maybe. ‘Right, your turn,’ he announced. ‘Tell me something surprising about yourself, Hetty Strong.’
She was quiet for a while as they stomped through the wet September grass back towards their would-be Swedish women’s prison. ‘OK … I only came to Warwick because there’s a guy who’s come here, who I was at sixth-form college with, and with whom I’m in love – Gosh, I sounded quite Shakespearean then – and if he hadn’t come here, then I wouldn’t have either. Oh, and he doesn’t know I love him. In fact, he doesn’t even know I exist.’
Matt didn’t know what to say, then managed, ‘Far out,’ in a homage to some unknown hippy student from the seventies.
‘And what’s his name, this guy?’
‘Adam,’ she said. ‘Adam Latimer.’
22
When the phone rang they were lying on her bedroom floor, dozing, the late-September sun peeping politely through the blinds, not wishing to interrupt them. Outside, nothing much was happening except the Sunday thrum of a strimmer and the indecipherable chat of two car-washers.