by Lesley Kara
She grimaces.
‘I could pop round again this evening if you like, after the party.’
‘What party?’
‘Didn’t I tell you about it? I’m sure I did. It’s one of Alfie’s classmates. He’s having a birthday party after school. A fancy-dress one.’
Mum groans. ‘Don’t tell me – Halloween?’
‘’Fraid so. I did what you said and made friends with some of the other mums.’
She nods. ‘I hope you’ve got him a good outfit. You don’t want him to be the odd one out.’
I stare at her in disbelief. This is the woman who used to tell me that pretty dresses were a complete waste of money and fashionable shoes were bad for my growing feet. ‘If you need a certain pair of shoes to fit in with the right crowd, Joanna, it’s the wrong crowd,’ she used to say.
‘Your face!’ she says now, and laughs. ‘I know what you’re thinking, but it’s different when you’re a grandmother. You’ll find that out one day. At least, I hope you will.’
I wonder whether this is a good time to tell her about Michael moving in. If I don’t tell her soon, Alfie’s only going to blurt something out, and then I’ll feel bad for keeping it from her. I sit down on the edge of the bed. I’ll probably end up with her cold now, but so be it. I need to be straight with her.
‘Mum, there’s something I have to tell you. Michael’s asked if he can move in with me and I’ve said yes.’
I look at my reflection in her dressing-table mirror, and then, obliquely, at hers. She’s folding her hanky into a small square, gathering her thoughts.
‘Well,’ she says at last. ‘If you feel in your heart that it’s the right thing to do, and if you’re absolutely sure it’s what you want.’ She sniffs. ‘I’ve only ever wanted you to be happy, Jo. You know that, don’t you?’
Her eyes are wet, and though this could be the effect of her cold, I don’t think it is.
‘Of course I know that. And I also know you’ve always thought he had commitment issues.’ I stare at my knees. ‘I’ve never told you this, Mum, but he asked me to marry him once.’
She gasps. ‘And you turned him down?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I didn’t want it to be just about Alfie.’ I sigh. ‘And I guess it had something to do with Dad as well. I couldn’t bear the thought of Michael turning out just like him and letting us down.’
Mum unfolds her hanky and blows her nose.
‘I know how much it damaged your self-esteem, Mum, and I didn’t want to—’
‘End up an embittered old woman like me?’
‘That’s not what I was going to say.’
She laughs. ‘You’re right, though. It did damage my self-esteem, and I’m sorry if I passed on my own insecurities about men to you. That wasn’t fair.’
‘I just wish he hadn’t been such a shit.’
‘You and me both, darling.’
I squeeze her wrist. ‘But I’ll tell you this. If Michael doesn’t step up and commit to us properly, like he’s promised he will, I’ll end it for good.’
Mum nods in approval. She could never move on, but I’m stronger than her. I can.
I just hope I don’t have to.
27
Sartre, or rather a character in one of his plays, famously said that ‘Hell is other people.’ I know that statement’s not quite as simple as it sounds and I don’t have the necessary philosophical knowledge to unpick it. But at this precise moment, I’m taking it at face value. Hell is indeed other people, especially the people sitting in Debbie Barton’s conservatory drinking Prosecco, and even more especially their children, who right now are being entertained by a balloon twister in the room next door and making so much noise my head is fit to burst.
My eyes drift from the faces that surround me and into the dining room beyond the conservatory doors. A vast diamanté-framed mirror reflects the green of the garden and a glass chandelier twinkles from the ceiling. Debbie’s husband, Colin – a plumber, I think she said – is sitting at the table having a beer with Karen’s husband, Rob. The two of them look out of place in what is the most bling-filled, girlie-inspired decor I’ve ever seen. Lots of purple and pink. Furry cushions and sparkly accessories. ‘Amusing’ wall plaques with quotes on. I wonder how much input Colin had in all this. Not much, by the looks of things. I bring my attention back to the conversation going on around me. It’s becoming more and more like an episode from one of those reality-TV shows – The Real Housewives of Flinstead-on-Sea. Tash will have a field day when I tell her about it.
To be fair, Debbie did say I could go home and come back later, but after the day I’ve had there’s no way I’m leaving Alfie on his own. After all, how well do I really know these people? They seem friendly enough, but after what Kay told me this morning …
Every now and then Karen and I catch each other’s eye. From the look on her face, she’s finding all this as tedious as I am.
I lean towards her. ‘How’s your mother?’
She frowns in surprise.
‘You said earlier you were taking her to a doctor’s appointment. I hope you weren’t late.’
‘Oh no, no,’ she says. ‘Well, we were a little bit, but it didn’t matter. You always have to wait about twenty minutes past your appointment time, don’t you? She’s … she’s fine.’
Karen takes a sip of her Prosecco and stares into the middle distance. Her expression has changed. I remember her mother’s face as she looked back at me over her shoulder, that time they waved at me through the window of Pegton’s. She didn’t look fine to me. Oh dear, I wish I hadn’t said anything now.
Around us, the chatter has turned to what’s been happening at Stones and Crones. The brick through the window and what it all means. Whether there’s any truth to the allegations.
Karen closes her eyes and sighs. She opens them and catches me staring at her. ‘How are you getting on with this month’s book-club read?’ she says. ‘I’m finding it a bit heavy going, to be honest. All those stories within stories.’
‘What book is it?’ Debbie asks, before I’ve even had a chance to answer.
‘Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein,’ Karen says.
Debbie pulls a face, as if to say, What a bore. ‘I’m surprised nobody’s come to Liam’s party dressed as Frankenstein.’
Karen and I exchange a glance. A fleeting moment of mild amusement. I’ve misjudged her. I see that now. She might have been a bit intrusive that time at book club, but maybe she was just trying to be friendly. I’ve certainly got more in common with her than this lot and, after what happened at the beach this morning, we seem to have reached a new understanding.
‘Frankenstein is the name of the scientist who creates the monster,’ I tell Debbie, immediately wishing I hadn’t. No one likes a smart-arse. ‘Although everyone gets it mixed up.’
‘You could argue that he’s the real monster for abandoning his creation,’ Karen says.
I nod. ‘Or for creating him in the first place.’
Debbie pulls a face. ‘Leave it out, you two. You’re not at your book club now.’
Laughter erupts from the room next door.
‘He’s good value for money, that balloon man,’ Debbie says. ‘Quite good-looking too.’
Murmurs of agreement ripple through the group. Someone makes a joke about him being good at manipulating latex and they all shriek with laughter.
‘Talking of good-looking men,’ Cathy says, lowering her voice a little so that Colin and Rob don’t overhear, ‘I couldn’t help noticing that rather gorgeous man you were with just before half-term, Joanna.’ She smiles. ‘Is he your baby daddy?’
I bristle at the phrase. I don’t mind the question behind it. I’ve no problem confirming that Michael is Alfie’s father. Why would I? But the term ‘baby daddy’ has a nuance to it I don’t like, implying as it does that his only significance is biological. And the way she said it too, as if it were in inverted commas. Woul
d she have said that if Michael weren’t black?
I detect a slight lowering of voices around me, as if the others don’t want to be blatant enough to stop talking but neither do they want to miss out on my answer.
‘He’s Alfie’s dad, yes. He’s also my partner.’ It feels odd saying this out loud. I usually say something like, He’s Alfie’s dad and my best friend, but if I say that now, it might invite further questions, and my instinct in situations like this is to shut the line of enquiry down as politely and efficiently as I can. Besides, things are different now. Michael is my partner.
‘Oh, I didn’t realize,’ Cathy says. ‘I thought you were single.’
I smile. There’s a slight pause in the conversations going on around me, like white space on a page, and then, when my silent smile continues, the voices resume. Pitter-pattering over the awkwardness until the moment is washed away. Borne aloft on a tide of trivia.
‘Okay,’ Debbie says. ‘I think it’s time to quieten things down a bit in there.’ She gets up and goes over to a cupboard, from which she draws a large box-shaped present wrapped in shiny silver paper. ‘Any volunteers for music control in Pass the Parcel?’
Karen’s hand shoots up so fast she almost knocks Teri’s Prosecco to the floor.
Debbie points to her iPad on the coffee table. ‘I’ve got a playlist set up on Spotify. Just click on Spooky Tunes.’
We all troop into the adjoining room, where balloon animals are being brandished like weapons and bashed over a sea of heads. Karen’s and Teri’s daughters, Hayley and Ruby, are the only girls in the group, and it’s interesting to see how they’ve taken themselves off to a quiet corner and are playing an entirely different game that involves trotting their animals along the back of the sofa in a sort of dance routine.
Alfie’s hair is damp with sweat and his eyes have a manic gleam. I perch on the end of a sofa as far too many mothers try to organize the children into a seated circle. Colin and Rob have wisely stayed in the dining room. At last, the Ghostbusters theme tune starts up and the parcel is on the move.
Two hours later, after a dismal half-hour traipsing along dark, wet streets while our hyperactive offspring knock on strangers’ doors and ask for treats, I’m desperate to get home. But when Karen and Rob ask me in for a cup of tea – well, just Karen, really – and I realize they live in The Regal, I can’t resist. It used to be a posh hotel in its day and I’m keen to have a look and see what it’s like.
One of the apartments on the upper floors with a verandah and a view came up for sale recently, but the owner withdrew it before I got a chance to take a look. Karen and Rob’s flat, disappointingly, turns out to be in the more modern extension, but I can hardly change my mind now. And besides, she did let Alfie win the main prize in Pass the Parcel.
Karen ushers me into a warm, square-shaped living room. It might not be as grand as I’d been expecting, but it has a pleasant feel to it. Hayley climbs on to the lap of an older woman curled up on one end of a large sofa with a laptop. The same woman I saw with Karen outside Pegton’s. She’s dwarfed by a white, fluffy bathrobe and she’s wearing a pink beanie and a pair of slipper boots.
‘Meet my mother,’ Karen says. ‘This isn’t her usual attire, but then it is Halloween, eh, Mum?’
I cross the room towards her, hand extended. She can’t get up, not with Hayley hogging her lap. She shakes my hand. Her wrists are tiny, her face gaunt.
‘She’s charming, isn’t she, my daughter?’ Her voice is surprisingly gruff. The pink hat and the fluffy slippers had me expecting something a little softer. More feminine.
‘Learned it all from you, Mother dear,’ Karen says. It’s just mother–daughter banter, but I sense a slight tension between them. It must be a strain for Karen and Rob, having her mother stay with them in this small flat. I can’t help noticing that Rob’s disappeared into the bedroom and closed the door behind him.
Karen plucks a DVD from a basket on the floor and, before long, Hayley and Alfie are sitting cross-legged in front of the TV, engrossed in the opening scenes of Frozen.
Karen beckons me into the kitchen. ‘Let’s go and have some tea. Mum’ll keep an eye on them. She loves Frozen.’
As I follow Karen out of the room, I glance back at the three of them: a somewhat dishevelled Darth Vader and his ghostly bride, and the thin woman in the oversized bathrobe, tapping away at her keyboard.
Later that night, when I’m stretched out on the sofa watching mindless TV, I reflect on the day. All that anguish I felt this morning when I saw that awful photo, and my panic at losing Alfie – it’s all faded away. If I never hear the words ‘Halloween’ and ‘Trick or Treat’ again, I’ll be happy, but at least Alfie enjoyed himself, and I’m glad I went back to Karen’s flat. I have a feeling we’re going to be friends after all.
I reach for my phone to check whether Michael’s been in touch and, sure enough, there’s a text.
‘How was the party? Bet Alfie stuffed himself with sweets.’
For the next couple of minutes we bat messages back and forth, neither one of us wanting to be the last to sign off. I know I should tell him about the photo, and the incident on the beach this morning, but it seems too much for a text and I’d rather tell him face-to-face. Eventually we say goodnight and I toss the phone on to the cushion beside me. Then I pick it up again and go on to Twitter. Just one last look at Sally Mac before I delete my Twitter account for good. Now that Michael’s moving in, I won’t be so bored in the evenings.
She’s still there, and … oh … she’s posted another tweet.
I stare at it, unable to process what I’m seeing. The sound of the TV recedes and an iciness trickles from the back of my neck all the way down my spine. I must have misread it. Please, God, let me have misread it.
But I haven’t. The words are still there and the message is clear:
Look what you’ve started. You and your big mouth. I’m watching you. I’m #WatchingAlfie.
I wear my trainers with the bouncy soles so that I don’t make any noise. Tonight, I wait till the last of the evil clowns and walking dead have cleared the streets, till the late-night dog-walkers have long since turned in, and then I slip into the darkness. Feel its cold embrace on my skin. Inhale the purity of its breath.
In a small town like Flinstead at such an hour, and on windless nights like this when the sea is soft and flat, the silence is profound. Even after all these years, the thrill of having the streets to myself never leaves me. This is my time – Sally’s time.
Inevitably, I’m drawn to the beach. It’s even darker down there, unless it’s a clear night when the moon is shining. The freedom I feel when I’m on the sand, unobserved by human eye, is exhilarating. I’m not scared of the dark or the immensity of the sea. I’m not scared of anything down there. It’s like I’m moving through a dreamscape, at one with the universe.
Weightless. Immortal.
Invincible.
Tonight, though, I stick to the streets. Most of the houses are in complete darkness as I pass them, but one or two still have a light on in a downstairs room. I conjure up scenes hidden from view. A young couple making love on a sofa, giggling when the springs squeak; an old man drifting in and out of sleep in front of the TV; a nursing mother, head drooping as the baby suckles, husband snoring upstairs.
I’m so jealous of their ordinary lives I could scream. I could pick up this loose brick here and hurl it through a window. Shatter their peace and tranquillity. Make them as scared as me. Just for a little while, so they know what it’s like.
They’ll never know what it’s like.
At her house, a faint orangey glow is just visible at the bedroom window.
28
It’s gone midnight before I dare to go to bed. I must have checked the locks on every window in the house at least three times, and I’ve drawn the bolts across on the front and back doors, which I don’t usually bother with, as long as they’re locked. I can’t rid myself of the image of someone watching
me from the street. Watching Alfie. A shiver runs through me.
When I go into the kitchen to get myself a glass of water, the blackness of the window above the sink scares me. If there were someone out there, they’d have full sight of me as I turn on the tap and wait for the water to run cold. Why haven’t I put a blind up yet?
I’m being stupid, I know I am, but the sight of the knife block sitting on the worktop unnerves me. I remember Mum telling me something she’d read about in the paper once, a horrible story about an intruder using one of the homeowner’s own kitchen knives to attack her when she confronted him. She always hides her knife block in a cupboard now.
When she first told me this, I thought she was being a bit OTT, but now I remove each of the knives in turn and hide them in a drawer under my tea towels.
Upstairs in my bedroom, I try ringing Michael again, but his phone keeps going to voicemail. I’ve been leaving messages and texting him ever since I saw the tweet.
Ring me as soon as you get this message.
Something horrible has happened.
I have to talk to you.
Maybe he’s asleep already. He did say he might pop into the fitness centre after meeting his new tenants. Perhaps he was tired. Or maybe he went out for a drink with one of his mates afterwards and hasn’t checked his phone.
I know what Mum would think if she knew he wasn’t returning my calls.
After tossing and turning for goodness knows how long, I get up and go into Alfie’s room. I lift his duvet as gently as I can and creep into bed next to him, wrap my arms around his warm, sleeping body and breathe him in. The sound of my heart beats loud in my ears.
I know, deep down, that whoever sent that tweet is just messing with my mind, just like I know that Michael isn’t playing around. But still, I won’t sleep tonight.
It’s a while before I realize that the distant ringing noise isn’t part of my dream but is coming from my phone in the next room. I ease myself out of Alfie’s bed so as not to wake him. The watery, grey light coming through the gap in his curtains means it’s early dawn. So I must have slept a couple of hours, at least.