by Andrea Darby
Still no mention of what I really wanted to know. The massive elephant remained in the ether. I stopped myself replying straight away. It seemed overly eager, desperate perhaps – against the rules of e-messaging etiquette I suspected – and I needed to keep my focus on work.
I hear Mark laugh. He’s still on the phone, scribbling shorthand notes. I can’t resist. I type. It still feels too daunting to directly ask the question I need the answer to, the one that seems to matter so much again. Instead I write:
Hi. Still in London, lucky you! I miss it, especially the theatres. The Rosehouse here has the odd decent production – probably not on your acting wish list though! Do you have to travel much? I took up am dram a few years ago but it didn’t really work out. Did you ever take your driving test again? Hope your family are well. Carrie.
Despite a strong urge to tear into Ashley, I know I have to keep things friendly to keep the thread going. I want to know more about his life, whether he’d got his comeuppance.
Mark startles me with some loud hand-drumming on the desk. He often did this. Summoning his muse, I reckoned. I click off the screen, grab my biscuit.
‘Yum. Bet you wish you’d had one?’ I tease.
‘I’m fine with my sugar-free mints. Anyway, I’ve got a piece of chocolate fudge cake waiting in my fridge. Actually, I lie, it’s double chocolate.’
‘You’ll have to double the pace on the running machine tonight then.’
‘Or just eat half of it.’
I chuckle. Mark had started exercising, joining Tash on her never-ending diet. He’d always kept fit playing rugby, his broad shoulders barging many a big-necked brute on the rugby pitch – hence the big tab of displaced cartilage on his left ear that Tash and I regularly flicked as we passed his desk. But he’d given up his favourite game after his marriage break-up three years ago and gained weight. He’d also turned grey. It was still a shock not to see the big nineties spikes, his hair now short, with a ruffled fringe that clearly got the gel treatment, though he vehemently denied it.
‘Before you go, I’ve got two hundred tickets to sell for this auction, so if any of your rich friends fancy it?’
‘Course. I’ll ask the millionaires first, then work down.’
Mark was organising a black tie charity event. His younger sister had died of a rare form of brain cancer and he did lots of fundraising. Still several months away, Tash had already sorted us on to a table of six, with herself and whoever she happened to be dating, the graphic designer and his wife, and Mark and me. I was uneasy about it being a ‘couples’ thing. Sunny had made one of her comments after Mark had taken me out for a Christmas drink, leaving me feeling unusually sensitive. ‘Just the two of you?’ she’d enquired with wide eyes, after popping by to deliver Eleanor’s present (a bag full of ethical make-up). Mark and I were friends. End of.
‘Say bye to Tash for me.’ I make for the door. ‘Surely she can’t still be in Pete’s office?’
‘Probably giving blow jobs.’ Mark opens his mouth, pushing out his lips. I flick his ear.
***
It’s an Eleanor somewhere around eight on the stroppy-ometer I get that evening. I’m stood by Mitsy, investigating the cause of a disgusting smell, when she crashes into the kitchen, chucking her bag with such a thump it sounds as if she’s strapped a brick to it.
‘Kendrick’s given me a detention.’ Her kohl-blackened eyes lock mine.
‘Oh Eleanor. What for?’
‘Wearing too much make-up and … calling Bethany a bitch.’ I glare. ‘Well, she is.’ She yanks off her tie.
‘So you deserve the detention. I thought you were friends again.’ Eleanor and Bethany had a very on-off friendship. ‘What’s she done to upset you?’
‘Well, right, this guy in our year fancied her and she didn’t like him, but then he said he liked me and now she does and she had, like, a proper go at me in the form room – and it was so embarrassing.’
‘When will you learn, it’s not worth falling out over a boy?’ I grab a cloth to attack a sticky stain on the island. ‘Anyway, I didn’t think Bethany’s allowed a boyfriend.’ Her mum has some strong beliefs and there’s so much Bethany’s not permitted to do.
‘She’s not.’
‘It’ll work out,’ I say calmly.
‘It won’t. She’s been a right—’
‘Eleanor!’ I want to chastise her, but her lip’s quivering and eyes watery. She’s clearly hurting badly, not just being cranky.
Bethany had gone to the same primary, they’d known each other for years, but they’d had a massive fallout in Year 5 when Bethany told everyone about Dan’s post-death wish. They didn’t speak for several months, and their friendship had been volatile ever since. Eleanor had been distraught. She’d arrived home hysterical, saying everyone at school thought her dad was ‘weird’. ‘That’s a stupid, ignorant thing to say, just ignore it,’ I’d said, trying to explain what ignorant meant whilst wrapping her in my arms in some vain hope of squeezing out the hurt. ‘Your daddy believes science can do some very clever things – and it can, can’t it?’ I’d said. ‘I don’t know. I hate science,’ she’d replied, still sobbing uncontrollably.
Eleanor clashes a glass down on the ivory worktop and pours a drink. I take a breath from the depths of my diaphragm. ‘Are you sure that’s the only thing you’re upset about? You know, if you have a problem, you can always talk—’
‘Yes, for God’s sake. How many times do I need to say? Are you bloody stupid … or deaf or what!’ She slams the bottle down; an eruption of fizzy liquid soaks a pile of mail.
‘Eleanor. That’s totally out of order.’ I leave the room. I don’t want to lose my temper, make things worse. It’s just her hormones, I assure myself.
I can’t do this single mum thing any more. I want you, Dan. Eleanor needs her dad.
CHAPTER 7
The rip of the Merlot screw top follows the ping of Eleanor’s microwave pasta meal by seconds the next evening. It’s been a challenging week. I’ve earned it. I feel bad that we’re not eating together – again – but I’ve planned to go for a drink with Mark and Tash. Besides, Eleanor likes to eat early these days, giving her more time to ‘do stuff’ – essentially lots of mindless messing with make-up, clothes and gadgets.
She used to do meaningful things like read and practise her clarinet but apparently books are for nerds and blowing a reed’s a bigger turn-off for teenage boys than pubic plumage. She launched her fleeting musical career on the flute early in Year 5, swapping to the clarinet. ‘Thin lips are better for the flute – you should play it, Mum,’ Eleanor had teased, laughing heartily. At first, it sounded as if a donkey had joined her as she honked and squeezed out deformed notes, but recognisable tunes gradually emerged. ‘That Yellow Submarine’s got an unusual distress call,’ Dan had joked once, while we proudly listened from downstairs, willing her to master it. Now the instrument rarely strays from its solid black case, which she often uses as a footrest.
I worry that she’s lost her way a little, or rather she’s lost without the more steadfast parental sat nav – her dad – to guide her.
‘You’re an alcoholic.’ Eleanor glares at my glass through lashes laced with mascara as I join her at the table.
‘Don’t be daft. There’s a difference between enjoying a drink and being addicted.’
‘Well, you enjoy it a lot.’
‘It’s been a tough week.’ She ignores me. ‘Do you mind if I pop out for an hour? Me and a few other alcoholics from work are meeting up for a post-pitch drink.’
‘Fine.’
‘Mark’s picking me up at seven.’
Eleanor shrugs one shoulder. She’s known Mark all her life. I’ve always imagined he’s like a favourite uncle, someone who makes her laugh and might flirt with her mum after too much Cava at a family party. Yet I wonder if her view of him, and all bachelors or divorcees, has changed – how she’d feel if a stranger showed her mum some affection. A topic I lack the pluck to raise
.
‘Have you decided whether you’re going to audition for Fame, darling?’ Eleanor’s drama club’s planning to stage the musical.
‘For God’s sake. You’ve asked me that, like, a million times. I don’t know.’
‘What about Freya?’
‘Duh! Course.’ Eleanor’s teacher maintains she has natural flair, but needs more self-belief. It doesn’t help that Freya’s stunning, with flowing, strawberry blonde hair, and enough confidence to fill the National Theatre.
‘I’ll have pudding later, yeah?’ Eleanor shoves her plate aside and heads out.
As I sip my wine, braced to tackle the chaos in the kitchen, I think about how difficult things have been between us recently. It started in December. A painful awareness of the significance of the month – our second Christmas without Dan – combined with Eleanor’s increased moodiness and my bout of winter blues produced some persistent heavy frosts. I tried to make it better. I bought a cracking Christmas, but it wasn’t as jolly and bright as it promised on the tin. I went overboard with decorations, a real tree (Mark bought a twelve-foot monstrosity that was going cheap and had to hack off a huge chunk), loads of presents and enough food and treats for a plus-size convention.
Things were OK during the busy run-up and Mum and Dad stayed until Boxing Day. But then – on our own, festivities over, mince pies turning stale and crap on TV – the tension mounted.
I wonder whether we’ll ever enjoy December again, or if the season has forever lost its sparkle. I hope not. Eleanor shouldn’t be dwelling on loss and sorrow when others’ thoughts are on gifts and glitter and what eye shadow shade’s this season’s must-have.
On New Year’s Eve, two days after the second anniversary of Dan’s death, she sulked in her room after pouring scorn on our boring lives – Freya was at a family party and ‘everyone else was enjoying themselves’ – leaving me to a plethora of snacks and a solo rendition of Auld Lang Syne.
I thought I was prepared for the teen trials, but Eleanor’s turns are like one of those fair rides that swing stupidly high into the air, then plunge back down. And I’m the one in the back, taken along for the ride and stifling screams. I wish I could be firmer. Dan would do a better job; calm, consistently firm, but fair. But I’m so weak at times – evading situations and stern words I fear could end in a big clash, or turning them into a joke to lighten the mood. Conflict Dodgems – that was my favourite fair ride. Besides, I feel I owe Eleanor some leeway.
I’d even contemplated taking the pills again, after a few gloomy mornings that brought back some of the dark thoughts I’d had just after Dan died, those months when popping the foil on the anti-depressants became a morning ritual as necessary as the first two cups of Lavazza, when the pain in my head, and, strangely, in my body too, was numbed by the chemicals coursing through my veins. Unlike my caffeine addiction, no one, except Imogen and Dr Bell, knew about my guilty narcotic secret. A quick – private – fix. I’d kept the tablets in the inner compartment of my work bag, waiting until Eleanor left for school to take them. I felt weak and pathetic. I never imagined I’d need them. Nor did anyone else; ‘Carrie seems to be coping well’, ‘She’s still got her sense of humour’. But a joke’s a good cloak, as they say.
‘It’s so easy to get hooked on those things,’ Imogen had admonished gently, urging me to ditch them. And, eventually, I did. I hated the dulled senses. I stared at things, but didn’t really see them. I reacted to things, but didn’t feel them. And it wasn’t good for work. I needed some adrenalin to do my job, to perform. I flushed them down the loo.
The phone pulls me into the present. It’s Imogen. She’s had a big row with Ben – suspects he’s running out of patience.
‘It’s the worse thing – having a ridiculously randy husband and absolutely no appetite. I’m not sure it’ll ever return.’
‘It happens to loads of women,’ I assure her. ‘Working when you’ve got two small kids is exhausting. You’ll get your drive back.’
‘I hope so. We almost never … do it. And when we do, Ben seems to know I’m just, well, going through the motions.’ I’m surprised Imogen’s divulging such information. She’s never comfortable talking about sexual matters, coy even with me.
After the chat, I change my blouse, extend my top lip with the stay-all-day lipstick Tash has given me – red wine and a scouring pad are the only things that seem to strip it off – and I’m on my way back downstairs when Mark arrives.
He can’t wait to show off in his new red Mazda MX5, head cocked as always, one hand on the wheel as he chucks it round corners, throwing throaty noises out into the narrow streets we speed down en route to his local in the next village. The radio’s drowned out by the engine, but Mark must turn up the volume, as I’m suddenly aware of the strains of a familiar tune.
‘Going too fast for you am I, Miss Scaredy?’ Mark says, noting my grimace.
‘As if.’
I try not to listen, but it’s hopeless. Such a powerful song – a hit by The New Crew, the American boy band who’d turned me dizzy in my teens. I’ve only heard that track twice since I gouged my CD single with a compass and hurled it into the canteen bin at poly. Ashley had bought it for me. I’d played it over and over, knew every note, every cloying lyric; layered it with nuance.
‘Turn this shit off.’ I reach for the dial, stomach churning.
‘Damn. I was so into that.’ Mark tunefully hums the last line. ‘I was a chorister, you know, before my b—’
‘Stop! You bloody weren’t. You were in the school choir.’
‘We sang in church a lot – and I was lead treble once.’
‘Only because the choir leader knew your mum.’ Mark nods several times.
It turns out to be just the two of us at the pub as Tash has lined up a last-minute date. The pub’s unusually busy and we’re hemmed in, sat on low stools at a sloping table with sticky beer mats. Mark’s forgotten it’s quiz night. We aim for two quick drinks, so we can exit before the annoying man on the mic kicks off his questions. We share the opinion that pub quizzes are a form of slow torture.
Mark returns from the bar, throwing two bags of dry-roasted nuts on the table.
‘What about the diet?’
‘Didn’t I mention,’ he glances at his watch, ‘it ends at 8.26pm. Besides, I must have pedalled to London and back on the exercise bike earlier. I’ve earned these.’
‘Bloody liar.’
Mark pulls a crumpled flyer from his pocket. ‘They’re going to start comedy nights here on a Friday once a month. Stan Stead’s kicking it off.’ He smirks. ‘If you fancy it?’
‘What about Jack?’
‘He’s not staying with me on Fridays any more. Sue says he’s too tired, Saturdays are better.’
For your ex-wife maybe, I think, scanning the sheet. But I don’t say it. Mark would do anything for his little boy, Jack. Rightly so.
‘Count me in then. I’m sure Eleanor won’t mind.’
‘Actually, I could sign Jack up. He’s into telling jokes at the moment – most of them bum and fart gags.’
‘Sophisticated, like his father,’ I say.
The time passes too quickly and I’m soon back at home staring at my pre-packed chicken salad, another blurred wine bottle, and facing the prospect of several hours of TV on my own again. I need to start taking control of my life. I yearn for busy evenings, and even busier weekends, like we used to have – everything planned at least two weeks ahead.
Please come back and organise me, Dan. I can’t do it. I need one of your ‘to do’ lists.
***
I have to keep rereading the message, letting the words work their way through a resilient barrier of disbelief:
Hi Carrie. Family well thanks. Yours? Cheers for bringing up the driving test – I eventually passed on the fifth go! Need a car to drive to regionals. Thankfully, back behind the wheel now. Been playing Duke of Norfolk in Richard III at a small theatre in Manchester. Not done The Rosehouse though. Your p
arents still in Surrey? If so, perhaps we could catch up some time – a good excuse for a trip to London methinks? Ashley x
‘Doing a crafty bit of Facebooking were we?’
I hastily click off the screen as Mark walks back into the office, shuffling in my chair, fingers touching my lips and throat. ‘Or has Tash got you on the dating?’ Mark cocks his head cheekily, placing a coffee on my desk.
‘Facebook. Guilty as charged.’ I hold up my hands. Mark tuts. I still recoil when he mentions dating. I haven’t told him I’m back in touch with Ashley – I’ve made Tash pinkie pledge she won’t either – though I’m concerned he may have picked up a few threads of our kitchen chats, despite my attempts at discretion. I want to believe it doesn’t matter what Mark thinks. He knows my history with Ashley – I’d confided in him during a lunchtime drink years ago. In fact, I’d told Mark more than I had Dan (Dan knew Ashley was a significant ex but I’d spared him the details) – and he’d surely declare me insane.
‘Well, one of us has to do some work.’ Mark drops noisily into his chair. I throw a pen, but it misses, hitting the bin. ‘I’ve already got one, but thanks anyway.’
My eyes fix on the screen for the next few minutes, but my thoughts wind around Ashley’s message and suggestion to meet. Had he meant it, or was it just a throwaway comment from the Crown Prince of Casual? Perhaps he did feel the need to explain himself; a scary thought – one I knew I’d struggle to shake off. And he was performing Shakespeare. Wow. His was no ‘pipe dream’, Mum; you got that one wrong! I wince as I recall how embarrassingly standoffish Mum was with Ashley, making it clear she didn’t deem him suitable for her girl. I hated that she’d turned out to be right. Ashley brought the worst out in Mum. One of his alleged crimes was taking a year out, unmitigated evidence that he lacked direction – the eighth deadly sin in Mum’s book. Of course, I’d turned out to be a sinner too. And she was dismissive of drama school. Acting wasn’t a proper career, she’d informed me one day, dusting the mantelpiece whilst watching Gone With The Wind for the fifth time.