On a Beautiful Day

by Lucy Diamond

  Knocking again at her mum’s front door – please let her be in, please – a memory flashed into Laura’s head of being in the loos at work last year, leaning against the cubicle wall and sobbing soundlessly at the arrival of her period, punctual as ever. Of screaming out loud in her car as she drove home one night because it was so unfair, because she was so sick of the disappointment, because she just couldn’t bear it any more. Of the maniacal joy and fear she’d felt last November when the pregnancy test had said positive, and how she’d taken to using hand-sanitizer every ten minutes (you couldn’t be too careful), walking everywhere with great care, with no sudden moves so as not to somehow jolt the baby out of her (was that a thing? Probably not, but she wasn’t taking any chances); how she’d dutifully swallowed her folic-acid tablets and forced herself to eat kale and blueberries and spinach, for optimum nutrition . . . only to have her hopes snatched away yet again.

  Was that all over for her now, then? The closing of a chapter? The drawing of a line?

  She couldn’t stand it, if so. Okay, so those times had been hellish, but while there was still a possibility, still a chance, surely they should keep on trying?

  ‘All right, all right, no need to bang the door down!’ At last – there was her mother on the doorstep, in a hideous paisley dressing gown and fluffy slippers, bed-hair and no make-up. She frowned in surprise to see Laura there, tear-streaked and wan. ‘What the . . . ? What is this, my bank-holiday weekend surprise? First one turns up, then the other: what’s going on with you girls, for goodness’ sake?’ She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. ‘And why have you got that face on, like you’ve just found out about the tooth fairy?’

  ‘Mum, I . . .’ Laura said, and then the grief, combined with the whisky hangover, hit her with a wallop and she found herself hiccupping and stumbling forward into her mum’s bony embrace. ‘I’m really, really sad.’

  ‘Oh, chick, come here.’ Helen smelled of talcum powder and stale Southern Comfort and unwashed bed-sheets, but her arms were strong and tight, and for a second it was as if Laura was eight years old and one of the big boys had pushed her over on the way home from school. All too soon, though, the hug was over – her mum had never been the touchy-feely type – and Helen was bellowing up the stairs. ‘Jo? JoANNA! Your sister’s here. Yes, on the doorstep!’ She rolled her eyes, hauling Laura inside the house and shutting the front door again. ‘It’s like bloody Piccadilly around here, I can tell you. Is it too early for a drink?’

  Then Jo was stumbling downstairs, her hair a massive orange fuzz-ball where she’d just got up, pulling on a dressing gown with a startled expression. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ countered Laura, staring.

  ‘Why don’t I make us all a nice Martini?’ suggested Helen.

  It was like old times at first – the three of them on the sofa together, taking it in turns to fetch provisions from the kitchen every now and then: biscuits, coffee, toast, a second box of tissues when Laura started crying again. Theirs had been a relationship of three for many years, after all, since Laura and Jo’s dad had walked out, never to be seen or heard from again, two weeks before Laura’s fourth birthday. He was a flickering sort of figure to her now, barely remembered, and after his departure, her childhood had centred around this tight little three-way knot. And here they were again: same living room, same wallpaper, same sofa – only this time it wasn’t some teenage crush her mum and sister were advising her on, it was her husband, her marriage, her feelings of utter doom.

  ‘He’ll come round. You two are the golden couple!’ Helen and Jo kept telling her. ‘He’ll see sense eventually, he always does. Remember when you fell out over what colour to paint the bathroom?’

  ‘And what about when you couldn’t decide where to go on holiday last year? You got your way in the end, didn’t you?’

  Laura knew they were only trying to be helpful, but really – the colour of a bathroom and a holiday destination were pretty insignificant, compared to whether or not she and Matt should keep trying for a baby. ‘I guess,’ was all she mumbled, though, worn down by the drama.

  ‘You wait, he’ll be back, on bended knee. Mark my words! I know I’m always saying that all men are bastards, but your Matt – he’s different. He’s one of the good guys, and take it from me, there aren’t many of them around.’ Helen gave one of her long-suffering sniffs. ‘I should know, I’ve been looking for one for the last thirty-five years.’

  Laura and Jo eye-rolled each other, because this topic of conversation was never all that far away where their mother was concerned. ‘So this new guy – Pete, was it? Where does he stand?’ Jo asked, before adding, for the benefit of Laura, ‘I met him last night, by the way. I’m not sure we’ll be getting a new stepdad any time soon, to be honest.’

  ‘Oi! He’s all right.’

  ‘Mum! Come on. He’s got really bad BO, for one thing – and he was wearing this horrible stained tracksuit.’

  ‘He’s got kind eyes!’

  ‘He’s not exactly the next Mr Parkins, though, is he?’

  The three of them fell silent for a moment, reflecting. Mr Parkins had been Laura’s English teacher on whom they’d all had a massive unanimous crush, leading to several excruciating parents’ evenings in days gone by. Laura still tingled with embarrassment to remember her mum leaning forward across the desk, all perfume and cleavage, batting her eyelashes and cooing, while poor Mr Parkins fiddled with his wedding ring and tried to steer the conversation back to a recent essay on Macbeth.

  ‘I thought I’d married my Mr Parkins,’ Laura said dolefully, misery seeping back in like rain through a cheap tent. She sighed. ‘Why are you here, anyway, Jo? I thought you’d be cosied up with your Mr Parkins. Isn’t he back from Dublin yet?’

  Jo launched into a saga about an aborted airport reunion, the manipulative daughter (‘who hates me’) and her doubts about whether she’d fallen for Rick too quickly and should have held back before rushing in. Just as she was drawing to a despairing close, her phone rang and Laura noticed her face soften as she glanced at the screen, before standing up and walking away from them to answer it.

  ‘Hi,’ Jo said happily, and Laura arched an eyebrow at her mum. Talk of the devil . . .

  ‘Ask him round,’ Helen hissed excitedly, already patting her hair into a tidier shape. ‘Come round!’ she called. ‘The mother wants to look you over!’

  ‘What?’ Jo asked. ‘Oh. Sorry. That’s just my mum. Yeah, I stayed at hers last night.’

  ‘You’re welcome any time!’ Helen went on, louder still. ‘I won’t bite! Well, not unless you— Ow!’ She broke off as Laura elbowed her. ‘What was that for?’ she grumbled, rubbing her side.

  ‘Um . . .’ Jo was saying awkwardly, ‘because . . . Yeah. It’s not a big deal, though! He must be on holiday. I’m sure it’ll all be fixed soon.’ She was doing her best to sound upbeat and breezy – despite the fact that she was presumably talking about her manky rat-infested flat and her useless landlord – but pulled a face at Laura as she said the words, acknowledging the lie. Then she gave a surprised sort of laugh. ‘Oh! Oh, there’s no need – I’m sure it’ll—’

  Helen pursed her lips and Laura, too, felt herself wondering what was going on. ‘Another cup of tea, Mum?’ she asked, not wanting to eavesdrop too blatantly.

  ‘God!’ Jo was saying, her cheeks turning pink. ‘Are you sure? I mean – it can just be a temporary thing, obviously, we don’t have to . . . Okay. Thanks! All right, I’ll be over later on. Couple of hours?’

  She hung up, looking dazed, then her eyes sparkled as she turned to Laura, loitering in the doorway. ‘Whoa,’ she breathed. ‘So that was unexpected.’

  ‘What? What did he say?’ asked Laura and Helen simultaneously.

  Jo blinked and tucked a loose curl behind her ear, still with that stunned, dazzled expression. ‘Um. Well. He just asked me to move in with him.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘You
’re moving in with him?’ Her mother frowned with obvious disapproval. ‘What, for good? Oh dear. Oh no. No, no, no, Jo, what are you thinking?’

  ‘Mum!’ Jo laughed. ‘Of all the people to be advising me on this, I’m afraid you’re about the last person I’m going to take any notice of.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s what you want?’ Laura hazarded. ‘I mean . . . You do have options, you know; you can totally stay with us. If you don’t mind a stony silence across the breakfast table, that is, and tension you could cut with a chainsaw.’

  Jo had considered this offer for approximately half a second – hmm, let me think: stony silences versus round-the-clock hot new man-love – and had thanked her sister, but said it was fine; and yes, she was quite sure. (And then she blushed cringingly red at the workings of her own brain – hot new man-love indeed – and sent up a grateful little prayer that neither her mother nor her sister could read minds.) She had left shortly afterwards, because she could see Laura’s face becoming all tight and teary again, and didn’t want to rub her sister’s nose in her own wild happiness. Talk about romantic. And exciting. And unexpected! Why don’t you . . . move in with me? he’d asked, in his sexy, drawly phone voice. How could any heterosexual woman refuse?

  It was only after she’d dumped the majority of her possessions at the nearest Big Yellow and was driving over a car-load of essentials to his flat that the Voice of Reason suddenly dialled in, for a one-to-one. And you’ve been with this guy for – what, a couple of weeks? the Voice asked pointedly.

  Well, it’s been a month now, so . . . replied her heart.

  And you’re willing to give up your independence just like that, when he clicks his fingers? Even after he binned you off for his kid last night?

  Um, I don’t think it’s quite as sinister as that. I’m staying with him, really, not actually moving in. I think.

  Says you, with your car crammed full of stuff. Right. So what happened to that new Jo – the strong, not-to-be-pushed-around Jo – who was going to take things slowly, who wasn’t about to rush into anything rash, just for the sake of it?

  It’s not ‘just for the sake of it’, though, it’s . . . Look, it’s complicated. And it’s only temporary anyway. I’ll sort out another flat for myself in a week or so. It’s not a big deal.

  Really.

  ‘Yes, really!’ snapped Jo, before realizing that she’d said that out loud, with the car window down, and that the driver alongside her at the traffic lights was giving her nervous, mad-woman-alert glances. ‘You’re breaking up,’ she said, pretending she was taking a call and twiddled with an imaginary earpiece for good measure. Then, as she pulled away, she dropped the act, switching on the radio and turning it up loud, so that the dreary, nagging Voice of Reason could no longer be heard. Sod off, Voice of Reason. I’m just having a bit of fun, that’s all. Okay?

  Having arrived at the flat, sweaty and red-faced from hauling up three cardboard boxes in the lift, she belatedly remembered the third wheel on this vehicle: Maisie, who was also staying at her dad’s place, and who, somewhat predictably, turned out to be less than thrilled about the new living arrangements. ‘You have got to be kidding me,’ the girl cried, hand on hip, not even bothering to hide her scandalized expression as Jo heaved the boxes into the hall. ‘Dad – no. This is crazy. What are you thinking? Does Mum know about this?’

  Rick stiffened at the mention of his ex, while Jo felt her good cheer popping like soap bubbles. ‘It’s none of your mum’s business,’ Rick replied curtly. ‘And it’s not really yours either, might I remind you.’

  ‘Um, it’s only temporary . . .’ Jo put in meekly, a trickle of nervous sweat running between her shoulderblades.

  Maisie ignored her, though, squaring up to her dad. ‘Well, it is my business when I’m coming to stay with you every other weekend,’ she retaliated. ‘Ugh! I don’t want to be lying awake listening to the disgusting sounds of you two having sex, it’s—’

  ‘Maisie!’ Rick thundered. ‘That’s quite enough. I mean it. Stop trying to show off, you’re just making yourself look immature and crass.’

  Ouch. Jo had never seen him so severe. But far from silencing his daughter, his words had the effect of prodding a hornets’ nest. Her eyes glittered, her lip curled, her face became positively stony. ‘If that’s what you think of me,’ she began with impressive aplomb, ‘then I might as well pack my things and go. It’s obvious you’ve made your choice! One in, one out, would that suit you, Dad?’

  And off she whirled, tawny hair swinging round behind her, shoulders rigid. Rick, of course, was powerless to resist and hurried after her. ‘Maze – come on. Don’t be like that,’ Jo heard him wheedling, before there came the slam of Maisie’s bedroom door.

  Goodness. Maybe this hadn’t been such a great idea after all, Jo thought, standing there like a spare part for a moment, before trudging back downstairs to bring up her suitcases full of clothes. But on her return, the lift doors parted to reveal Rick standing there waiting for her, reaching out a hand for one of the cases.

  ‘Are you sure this is okay?’ Jo asked in a low voice as they walked along the corridor together. ‘I mean, I can go back to Laura’s or Mum’s if—’

  ‘It’s fine,’ he told her firmly. ‘It’s all fine. This is my flat, and Maisie will just have to get used to it.’ Which was not exactly the most reassuring line in the world, thought Jo as she tentatively followed him through the front door again, but never mind, here she was. You’ve made your bed, now lie in it, as her mum would have said. Which, if Maisie hadn’t been there, might literally have been the case – the bedroom reunion she’d imagined, the giddy, joyful confirmation of their relationship, and yet . . . Having a stroppy teenager the other side of the wall was most definitely a passion-killer.

  I never wanted kids, I don’t want to be a stepmother, Jo thought, flinching as loud music started belting out from the girl’s bedroom. It was one thing that she and Greg had had in common at least, that shared certainty, so different from her sister’s broodiness – and yet here she was, falling in love with a new man whose daughter very much came as part of the package. Dumping her case alongside the rest of her possessions, Jo tried not to give in to despair. Rick was worth it, she reminded herself staunchly. He was worth all of this aggro. And surely Maisie would drop the petulancy and bad attitude soon, wouldn’t she?

  ‘Morning, Maisie. Did you sleep well?’ It was the following day and Jo had emerged from Rick’s bedroom to make coffees. The flat had two bedrooms, a stylish bathroom and an open-plan space consisting of a kitchen area, demarcated by a grey-tiled breakfast bar, and a comfortable living-room area. Maisie, dressed in a zebra-print onesie with the hood up, was sitting on one of the sofas eating a bowl of cereal and watching some YouTube video or other on a laptop.

  The girl didn’t reply immediately and Jo was just resigning herself to being ignored – whatever, it suited her fine – when a contemptuous reply finally came. ‘I’m just wondering,’ said Maisie, eyes remaining on the screen, ‘what all this shit is, in here.’

  Jo’s smile faltered. ‘What . . . what do you mean?’ she asked apprehensively. What was it about this girl that made her feel so uncomfortable? she wondered, peering at Rick’s expensive coffee machine and trying to remember how to work it.

  ‘I mean,’ Maisie said, with exaggerated impatience, ‘the shit that has appeared in my dad’s living room. Like that weird bird. And that tacky-looking vase. And all those crappy paperbacks.’

  The weird bird, tacky-looking vase and crappy paperbacks were, of course, Jo’s, as well Maisie knew. Rick had encouraged her to unpack and mingle them with his admittedly more stylish possessions around the room – the sleek grey clock, the pedestal globe, the carved marble book-ends – and it had been a nice moment, the night before, as she’d explained the significance of each item to him. That the pretty glass bird was one of the few gifts she’d ever received from her dad before he vanished; that the glossy red vase had been the first thing
she’d bought herself post-divorce, because it looked so cheerful and bright; and that the books – well, it was like bringing a bunch of friends with her, having her favourite novels in a room. But now, seeing them through Maisie’s disparaging eyes, she felt defensive and hurt. ‘They’re my things,’ she said, trying not to rise to the jibe. ‘Your dad said it was—’

  ‘Well, they’re shit,’ Maisie pronounced, seemingly not interested in what her dad had said. ‘They’re fucking shit and you’ve got fucking awful taste.’ All this had been said while staring at the laptop, as if she couldn’t even be bothered to look at Jo, but then she swung round, lip curling, and sneered at Jo standing there in her ratty old dressing gown, still trying to make the coffee machine come to life. ‘Me and Mum have had a right laugh about them, I sent her photos. She reckons you’re Dad’s midlife crisis.’

  The girl’s words, delivered with such casual scorn, were enough to leave Jo feeling winded. They were like knives to the heart: stab, stab, stab, spite upon spite. Jo had worked with difficult patients, she knew how to react in a trauma situation, but right now, when a teenage girl was savaging her so brutally, she had no idea how to respond. Part of her wanted to fight back, to retaliate, but how could she, when this was Rick’s daughter and he was sure to take her side? Instead she said nothing, trying to keep her cool, although that was tested even further when the coffee machine abruptly let out a plume of steam and spurted hot liquid from its tap, splashing Jo’s hand and making her yelp.

  Maisie sniggered, then swivelled back to whatever she was watching, turning up the volume until it was unbearably loud. Presumably this was so that Jo would try and tell her off, resulting in Maisie retorting ‘You’re not my mum, you can’t tell me what to do’ and making a battle of it. God! This was why she’d never wanted children, Jo thought, running her scalded hand under the cold tap, just as Rick came out, bleary-eyed, in T-shirt and boxers.