by Andrea Darby
I slap him, playfully, and he grabs my hand – and holds it.
***
We find ourselves in Ashley’s bedroom within minutes of returning to his flat. It had all started with the hand-holding. Neither of us let go as we walked the final few streets in silence. We kissed behind the door of his living room, his eyes flashing those familiar, intense stares, our lips already loosened by alcohol, now softened by lust. We didn’t speak, both consenting with looks and gestures. Both overpowered by something way beyond sense. The power of past attraction must have pulled us through the living room and into here, as I can’t recall our steps.
I note another pair of brown curtains, the absence of the piles of creased clothes I’d expected. The Gola bag’s in the corner. I smile inwardly.
Ashley sits on the bed, its iron frame pushed tight against the window wall. He pulls me next to him. The curtains are only partially drawn, putting us in shadow. I hear the hum of traffic in the street below, a singing siren in the distance. I stare down at his New York skyline duvet.
‘Bad, isn’t it?’ Ashley’s tracking my eyes, trying to grin. ‘I got it in the shop next door. It was all they had without flowers on.’
My smile’s shaky and he wraps his arms around me, pulls me tighter to his chest. He raises my chin, eyes locked on mine, fingers tracing the curve of my shoulder.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘What for?’ I know, but I need him to say it. Again. And again.
‘For what I did; for ruining us. I hope you can forgive me.’
I can’t find words. I sigh into a silence that presses down on us like a lowered ceiling. I know what’s going to happen. Shamefully, I’ve imagined it many times. And in that moment I want it more than anything. I block thoughts of Eleanor from my head. But Dan’s image comes. No! Sorry. I shoo it away.
I hear Sunny’s voice: ‘You two could be together again.’
Which two?
We can’t!
We bloody well can’t!
CHAPTER 21
‘So you copped off under the Empire State Building then!’ Tash beams at me during our coffee-time kitchen chat the next day. ‘Even I can’t beat that one.’ She shrieks.
‘Sssh!’ I flap my hand. ‘And don’t spoil it with your slutty smut.’
I’d intended to keep tight-lipped about it, but Tash is relentless. She’s worn me down.
‘I think Carrie’s been a naughty girl,’ she’d said, with a saucy grin and prolonged flutter of the lashes when I’d first arrived – late and flustered after oversleeping. Mark had heard, and although I’d finally gathered the pluck to tell him I was seeing Ashley, I was mortified, blushing beetroot.
Tash grabs the kettle. ‘So is he still in good nick – you know, down below and that?’ I glare. ‘Was he hairier? They say men get more body hair when they’re older, and it grows in odd places; even inside their bums.’
‘Oh my God, Tash.’
‘It must be so weird, having sex with someone again after so many years. I can’t imagine shagging Chris in twenty years’ time.’
‘Knowing you, it’ll be a miracle if you’re doing it in twenty days’ time.’
‘Ouch. Cruel,’ Tash says. ‘I think you might be surprised. Chris and I have really hit it off.’ I roll my eyes. It’s only a couple of weeks since she split with Ryan. ‘And I didn’t sleep with him on the first date. That could be, like, a sign.’
Admittedly, when she’d told me about the bonk-free first meeting I was amazed, but assumed it had more to do with a run-in she’d had with a weirdo who locked her in his flat, demanding she stand in her underwear and heels while he fed her Revels; she was exercising some caution at last.
‘And we’re going on holiday on his parents’ boat when I come back from Turkey. That’s three weeks away. Aw, I’m so excited about Turkey. Shame I have to finish a pile of work before I go.’ Tash’s hot fuchsia skater skirt twirls as she turns to the fridge to get milk. ‘So – is it serious with you now then, babe; with your Joseph?’
‘Well, yes, in the sense that things have clearly … progressed.’ I swallow down a surge of nervous excitement that takes my breath. ‘But I’m not sure, in terms of it being a proper, couple thing. It’s early days – and there are more hurdles than on an Olympic track; what happened before between us, there’s his work in London, his wife, my work here, and Eleanor, a little matter of trust, and besides—’
‘Don’t think about that stuff, babe. Just enjoy it. And keep putting the orange peel cream on those thighs.’ Tash totters out, sniggering.
I stir my coffee with a smile, imagining the bedroom scene replaying in the central spin of the liquid, the dazed dizziness returning. Tash is right. I’m in danger of allowing myself to spoil things. The thrill that accompanied me on the train home from London had abandoned me as I’d stepped through the front door, taken over by a sweep of remorse that I couldn’t shake off.
I’d desperately wanted to call Imogen, but knew I needed to get my head around it before I wrapped it with words. I had a bath, adding my favourite sandalwood scented salts, keen to let the warmth and excitement of the day’s events wash over me, the recollections making my skin tingle, body twitching with tiny darts of delight as the bubbles whirled and popped around me.
Then I’d spied my robe, hanging alone on one of two brass hooks on the bathroom door and the self-reproach came trickling back. Later, passing Dan’s photo on the sideboard, I’d found myself uttering an apology. How was it possible to feel so exhilarated, yet so regretful, to swing so wildly from one state to the other?
When Eleanor had returned home, bleary-eyed and moody, she’d been keen to retreat to her room and I was relieved. I was lost in a mess of guilt and elation. My conscience dragged my inner turmoil around the kitchen, armed with an all-purpose cloth and some Mr Muscle. I cleaned and tidied, then cleaned some more. Then I made Eleanor’s favourite tea.
‘Lush.’ Eleanor grinned at the sight of the piri-piri burgers, battered onion rings, oven chips and cheesy coleslaw that greeted her. Her eyes cast wildly around the room, noting the transformation. Yet they appeared to miss the shame etched on my face. Clearly, I still looked like the same mum, not the guilt-stricken widow who’d just had sex with her ex from prehistoric times and was serving junk food to her daughter to make herself feel better.
‘Thanks. Wowzer! You’ve proper tidied up,’ Eleanor said, crashing down to eat.
‘Don’t say it as if it’s a miracle.’
‘Well, it kind of is.’
‘Anyway, it’s tidied up properly,’ I corrected. Eleanor groaned. She was right, I seldom tidied and cleaned the kitchen that thoroughly. Yet it had been surprisingly therapeutic.
I was sure I could sense Eleanor’s silent scrutiny when she’d asked about my day, and I cagily confirmed that it had been simply ‘OK’. I’d gone to bed early, but woken in a sticky sweat after watching the chest of Dan’s corpse being punctured by a masked man with a giant needle, while another medic shouted frantically: ‘Stop! He’s not dead’. With that, Dan’s eyes snapped open, and so did mine.
I stop daydreaming and take a coffee to Mark. He thanks me, though his eyes barely stray from the screen. Things had seemed a touch strained between us since the auction. He’d cancelled our plans to go to the pub comedy night because he was feeling unwell – and, work stress aside, he seemed a little distant and distracted. It was just small things. Maybe I was reading too much into it, but there seemed to be less chat, fewer friendly gestures, the tiniest blip in our shared wavelength and easy companionship.
We work on, mostly in silence, and I manage to get a lengthy marketing report completed. Before leaving the office, I ask Mark if he’d like to come over for something to eat one night. I’m so glad he accepts.
Relishing the light evening, I take a detour on my journey home, driving down a road lined with trees abundant with vibrant white and pink blossom. It reminds me of the candy floss at the fair that visited every summer when I was a
kid, and of my pal Jo, whose cousin worked on the waltzers and used to give us free rides, spinning our car until our shrill screams subsided and we clutched our heads and turned green.
As I raise a grateful hand at an elderly driver who waves me on to the busy A23, pleasuring my nostrils with the Elmo air freshener hanging off the rearview mirror, I think of Ashley and find myself beaming. A proper, natural smile – lit from the inside – not one of those overcast ones you force on to your face.
I drive to the garden centre, buy a dozen trays of vibrant summer bedding plants – petunias, marigolds and several other striking pink and purple blooms the man recommends – to fill the borders at the top of the driveway. I can’t stand to see them bare any longer.
Back at home and Mum’s left a rambling answerphone message wishing Eleanor luck for her final show. She’d rushed Dad to A&E with chest pains but it turned out to be heartburn. She’d cooked her first ever chilli, worn the wrong glasses to read the recipe, and overdone the cumin. Although I really want to chat, I don’t call back. I know I really should tell her about Ashley – a thought giving me chest pains, too.
‘We slept together,’ I blurt to Imogen on the phone, perched precariously on the chaise.
‘Who was it with this time, Jude Law in a dinghy?’
‘I wish.’ I’d previously shared details of my strange erotic dream involving Hugh Jackman in a hammock in one of those trendy camper vans. We’d parked on the side of a track high up in the Swiss mountains. He’d yelled ‘yodel leh hee hoo’ as he hit his peak. ‘Hang on, what, really…’ Imogen’s voice is steadily rising, ‘…you mean with Ashley?’
‘Yes.’
‘Gosh. Wow.’ Imogen pauses. ‘Let me just turn the oven down – I’m baking some tarte aux pommes – think I need to sit down for this.’
I fill her in on the run of events. ‘Sodding hell, I wasn’t expecting that one, my lovely,’ she says.
‘Neither was I!’
‘So much for catching up on old times.’ Imogen titters.
‘I know. I feel bad. The guilt’s really getting to me.’
‘Well, you shouldn’t. The time’s obviously right.’
‘Maybe … I just wish I didn’t feel like this. Before we, you know, did the deed, I thought I could feel Dan’s … presence. Then after, it actually felt like he knew. I know it’s ridiculous, but it’s happened before, moments when I find myself wondering if Dan may have been right, that he hasn’t totally … gone … he’s still … around … oh, that sounds so silly when it moves from a thought to actual words. Don’t send for the shrink, will you?’
‘It’s OK, I don’t think you’re bonkers. I understand.’
‘I still do that “seeking Dan’s approval” thing, wondering what he’d think, whether I’m – I don’t know – dishonouring him …’
‘You don’t need anyone’s approval, lovely.’
‘You’re right. And we had such a great day.’
‘That’s brilliant.’ Imogen pauses. I hear a voice. ‘Ben’s mum’s here.’
‘Oh yes, how’s it going?’
‘Fine. She’s so young. I was shocked when I saw her.’
‘Of course, she was only sixteen when she had Ben.’
‘Yes, but I wasn’t expecting her to be so youthful; and glam. The girls love having two nans again. They took to her straight away.’
‘And you?’
‘She seems really nice. But it all feels a bit strange. Strained. I suppose it will for a while.’
‘Of course. It’ll take time.’
We say goodbye, then Sunny calls to tell me how much she’d enjoyed Fame. She’d been to the matinee as she was unable to join me for the evening performance. As she speaks, I recoil at the thought of her knowing about Ashley; how I’d break it to her – when. ‘Eleanor was so good, I just couldn’t believe it,’ Sunny says. ‘What a talented girl.’ She pauses. ‘Such a shame Dan couldn’t see her.’ I agree.
Later, I find a message from Sheena on my laptop:
Hi Carrie. The night out was great and Molly’s keen to babysit regularly in return for a few driving lessons. We’ll see?! Now the bad news – Abigail’s been excluded from school for hitting a girl (in the face!) who said her dad was definitely dead and everyone knew it. Although Abi was wrong to react like that, exclusion’s so harsh, given what she’s been through. I’m shocked because I thought Abi was handling things better than the older two girls. I’ve spent lots of time talking to her about her feelings. I wonder about getting her professional support? The school’s offered to refer us. Children can be so cruel, can’t they? I’ve tried to be honest with the girls, but keep them optimistic as I am. I just KNOW Geoff is still OK. I’m sure I’d feel it if he wasn’t. Sheena xxx P.S How did it go with Ashley? Any joy with your job hunting?
There was no let-up for Sheena – and her poor girls.
Could you really feel when someone’s dead, I ponder, or was it just the absence?
***
Eleanor has very little time at home. She has to be back at school an hour before curtain up. She’s a bundle of nervous energy.
‘It’s kinda sad it’s the last show,’ she says, breathlessly, searching her bedroom for her spare pair of coloured tights. ‘I’m really nervous – there’s going to be a photographer tonight.’
I’m in the doorway, quietly observing as she rummages through several piles of clothes, ready to take the blame if the tights can’t be located.
‘Found them.’ Eleanor shoves the tights, and a hairbrush, into her rucksack. ‘DO NOT sit at the front.’ She scowls. ‘Bethany’s supposed to be coming with her mum tonight. But she wasn’t at school today.’
‘I’ll look out for them.’
‘Hmm. Something’s definitely not right with Bethany at home. She got really upset in PSHE yesterday and missed maths. Perhaps her mum’s come out as a lezzer.’
‘Eleanor! That’s an awful thing to say. Anyway, she’s married.’
‘So? Everyone thinks she looks like one, with her short hair and men’s clothes.’
‘You can’t tell someone’s sexuality by how they look. That’s stereotyping.’
‘Uh.’ She raises one side of her top lip. Probably thinks stereotyping’s texting with both thumbs.
‘Google it,’ I say.
By the time I reach the school, my nerves are jangling, too. I can’t see Bethany, or her mum in the hall, so I sit what I assume is an acceptable distance, at least ten rows from the stage, fidgeting, shallow breathing and sipping water while I flick through the programme and repeatedly stare at my daughter’s name near the top of the cast list.
I think I’m going to faint when the slightly distorted recorded music strikes up and the emerald green curtains – the ones that had framed a million precious moments for generations of parents – jerk slowly open.
Anticipating Eleanor’s first entrance, as Serena, the shy actress, I miss several breaths. Then relief hits as the first words leave her mouth in the right order, just about reaching the audience. Her confidence grows with each scene and it’s only during a tender moment with Nick, her stage school crush, that she looks self-conscious, arms and head stiff. I think of her first role as an angel at primary school. She’s come a long way. And Freya shines, an audience favourite, perfectly typecast as Carmen Diaz, the confident and determined dancer obsessed with fame. Before long I’m totally lost in the action.
The tears that form during the final song – Bring On Tomorrow – are still in my eyes as I stand in the corridor giving and receiving ‘well dones’. Eleanor appears in a gaggle of excited teenagers, still in their costumes, all squealing, nudging and giggling in shapeless sweatshirts, gaudy trainers and loud leggings, hugs thrown in every direction.
Eleanor’s virtually hyperventilating during the drive home. ‘Was I really good, or are you just saying it?’ she asks for the third time, not waiting for a reply. ‘Was my high note out of tune? Did I look silly when I hugged Nick? Freya was great, wasn’t she
? Did you spot she forgot a line? Mrs Dean had to prompt her. I don’t think the audience heard, did they?’
She’s a little downcast when I tell her Bethany and her mum weren’t in the audience, but soon forgets. There are plans for an after-show party. She can’t wait. I tell her, again, how proud I am, that I want to buy her a special present.
Back at home, exhaustion takes over, Eleanor falling quiet before shuffling off to bed.
Then the phone rings. Silence. The rustling sound again, followed by a strange hissing.
‘Piss off.’ I slam it down. It rings again. ‘Who is this?’
‘That’s not a very nice greeting. It’s me – Ashley.’
I apologise, explaining about the nuisance calls. ‘You need to contact your phone company,’ he says. ‘I’m sure they can trace the caller, probably block them.’
He’d remembered it was Eleanor’s show night and wanted to find out how it had gone. His dress rehearsal for 1984 had been plagued by technical hitches, but there was another one scheduled. ‘They’ve added a few extra dates at another theatre. It’s going to be a long run.’
‘I’d like to see it. I read it years ago.’
‘It’s not the best adaptation.’ Ashley ignores my less-than-subtle hint.
But then he says he’s free Sunday, it would be great to see me, though he’d understand if I’d rather not travel to London again.
I’m still humming Bring On Tomorrow in bed.
I can still see the curtains opening, a bright light shining on my daughter – and I can’t stop smiling.
CHAPTER 22
I listen to the alien sounds of a city suburb’s early wake-up; the grumble of engines, distant shouts, hollow booms and the clatter of metal – bins perhaps – a few determined birds filling gaps in the din.
Sun’s streaming through the bottom of the horizontal blind, its cord caught up on one of the slats, pulling it askew and lighting up our lower legs. Seeing the shape of two pairs of feet beneath the quilt quickens my pulse.