by Andrea Darby
‘You can’t put it off any more,’ he says.
‘I know. I need to make sure it’s all logged with the police at least. Ashley said the same. He saw a woman running away, and she didn’t fit Kirsten’s description. I hate the thought it could be some weird stalker; that there may be worse to come. Eleanor seems really tense.’
‘We could go now. I’ll come with you, if you want?’
‘It’s OK, you need to get off, but thanks. Maybe now’s the right time to move.’
Mark shrugs his square shoulders, reiterates that I can call him if anything else happens, then wishes me luck for the following day. I’ve been invited for a second interview for the theatre job.
‘It’s got to be better than slogging away at Cullimore’s,’ Mark says, though being stupidly busy’s a ‘welcome distraction from ex-wife troubles’. Then he tells me Pete’s planning to retire next year, his son’s going to return from Dubai to take over the business. Pete’s been stressing over the finances because he wants to ensure everything will be in order.
‘Why didn’t you say before?’ I ask.
‘He swore me to secrecy – wasn’t convinced it would work out. It’s why he got an outsider in to look at the business. He’s going to tell everyone soon, so you need to play dumb. Shouldn’t be hard.’ I thump him.
My second interview’s an improvement on the first, and with a one-in-five chance of getting the job, suddenly it all seems real, and scary – the implications huge.
At home, Eleanor’s first question is whether I’ve reported the incidents to the police.
‘Yes,’ I say, scuttling down the hall. ‘I popped into the station after my interview.’
‘What did they say?’ She looks incredulous, eyes pulled wide.
I tell her they didn’t seem overly concerned, as there were no threats of violence. I have an incident number, and a number to ring if anything else happens, which I assure her is unlikely.
But she seems distracted and, after some probing, persuades me it’s because she’s really worried about Bethany. She’d been off school all week, was giving everyone conflicting reasons for her absence, and ignoring lots of texts and calls.
‘Perhaps you could pop by to see her – I’ll take you,’ I say, a suggestion that’s greeted with Eleanor’s best lip curl.
I phone Ashley to tell him about the interview.
‘Great – fingers crossed,’ he says. I’m disappointed. Part of me hoped he’d admit he didn’t really want me to get it, that he’d be unusually assertive, demanding I get a job in London so we could be together sooner.
***
I leave for work early, parking at the wrong end of town, despite the marbled clouds and heavy, on-off rain, so I can walk through the churchyard and pass Edith’s grave – again. It’s become a bit of a habit, since finding it.
The metallic words shine out from a pure white headstone: In Loving Memory of Edith Stanwell, Beloved Wife of Gordon, Loved and Remembered by Christopher and Paul and Their Families. On either side stand dappled vases stuffed with wilting spring blooms. I stay for a while.
Tash is already at the office when I arrive. She hops up from her desk and stands, looking stunning in a clingy, capped-sleeve dress, hands held out as if praying to the Lord of Lycra.
‘Something’s happened!’
‘What?’ I ask, fluffing up my damp hair. I know it’s nothing bad as Tash is grinning strangely.
‘I think I’ve had that cupid thing.’
‘Is that a nail treatment?’
‘What …’ she puzzles, ‘… oh, cuticles. Funny. Seriously, I think Joel might be the one.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, we were sharing a prawn and pepperoni pasta meal last night and I just felt it. Like, I didn’t want him to leave. I could hardly sleep, imagining what it would be like if we shared a flat, or lived on one of those luxury boats on the Thames. His friend has one that’s so amazing, with a bar and underfloor heating.’
‘Gosh. Serious stuff.’ I’m bemused by Tash’s alarmed look. ‘That’s good, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. But, oh my God, it’s scary, too.’
‘So no more dating websites then?’
‘Well, I might just stay registered on a few, just in case.’
I groan. ‘Anyway, how was reflexology with the Evil Elf?’
‘Oh, Carrie. You know I regret calling Sunny that,’ Tash scolds. ‘I actually liked it. She put this weird music on, with birds tweeting and water noises and stuff. I nearly fell asleep. She massaged my bunions, too, told me I wore heels too much, then did this head rub. It felt sooo good.’
‘Maybe it’s the treatment that’s got you all loved up. Sunny’s messed with your neurons – they’re misfiring, making you lose your mind.’
Tash tuts as she makes towards the kitchen. She turns. ‘Actually, I haven’t had a bad headache since.’
‘It was only yesterday, Tash!’
‘Good point.’
Only yesterday, I muse as I flick through a marketing report. Dan’s birthday. A day I dreaded. I expected Sunny to make a bigger deal of it, like she did last year. Of course, she phoned. And, of course, she mentioned it, though she pretended she was calling to confirm Tash’s appointment. ‘Fifty-one,’ she said, with an elongated sigh. As if I didn’t know what age Dan would be. ‘Are you doing anything today?’ she’d asked. I was tempted to say: ‘Yes, paying tribute to your brother by parading through the centre of London flanked by world statesmen and trailed by a military band. Instead I said: ‘Nothing much.’ Yes – I’d be thinking and hurting. A lot. I didn’t need to spell it out.
Last year, Imogen came to stay and took me out for a meal on Dan’s birthday again, knowing his absence would be agonising. Sunny looked after Eleanor. The next day, Eleanor told me Auntie had taken her for walk in Crodham Woods – where she and Dan used to make dens as children – then she’d turned off the lights in the living room, lit a candle, and talked about Daddy’s flame never going out. ‘It creeped me out a bit, Mum,’ she said.
This year, there was no fuss or grand gestures. Eleanor was subdued over breakfast. We both were. She spent a long time in her room. I dropped her at the cinema and, later, to Freya’s for a sleepover. I successfully filled the day with diversions, finally sitting down with Katie Strutt’s magazine column. I was trying to read about how she’d tested out a Shewee device, relieved to join her husband for a crafty wee behind the bushes during a five-hour bike ride, but little switches kept flicking inside me, distracting me, prompting emotions, thoughts and memories. I’d shared so many birthdays with Dan. His fortieth stood out. A trip to Monaco. ‘A petrolhead’s heaven,’ Mark had assured me enthusiastically when I ran the idea past him. I’d been worried about surprising Dan. He didn’t do surprises. No time to plan. Yet he’d loved every minute.
In the end, I’d given up reading, given in, and sat on the chaise, just thinking. Reflection was a strange thing, so inclined to editing and distortion; bright colours added to make memories less mundane. ‘It’s funny how people improve with death; they’re always lovelier, cleverer, more popular and successful,’ Mark said to me once over a pint. ‘When I die, I hope people remember me as that ordinary bloke who was pretty good at writing, quite funny, loved playing rugby but never got beyond county level, and could be a moody bugger at times.’ I’d chuckled in agreement.
Kirsten’s claim – and all the cryonics repercussions – were rubbing at the rose tints on my retro-specs, blurring and bending my vision of Dan.
‘I do often have a headache on a Monday though and I haven’t today.’ Tash’s voice pulls me from my reflections. She’s obviously been mulling that one over in the kitchen.
‘Did you get drunk last night?’ I ask, opening the blinds to see if anyone’s sat on the bench, looking out for Gordon.
‘No.’ She’s nibbling a carrot stick.
‘That’ll be it, then, you daft cow!’
She concedes defeat. I hear a ping and wait for Ta
sh to reach for her phone. She’s flicking through a pile of papers, clearly procrastinating.
‘That yours, hon.’
I reach into my bag. Ashley has texted from the train: Don’t think this on-board coffee would cut it with you. Piss weak. Missing you. X
After days of not hearing from him, despite several calls, last night I had: Big Brother is boring me now. Thinking of you. X
Mark’s late, dashing in at nine, hair still damp, toothpaste dried on his lower lip. Jack’s staying while his mum moves them to their new barn conversion in Somerset. Georgia stayed too. He makes it into his chair seconds before Pete arrives for the inspection.
‘Morning, troops,’ Pete says, with a tip of the head. Barbara follows behind, grinning dutifully, lily of the valley filling the air.
‘Morning,’ we chorus.
‘Carrie, I had the Lorex boss on the phone last night singing your praises again about the articles.’ Pete regards me steadily. ‘Mark and I have spoken, and given his workload, I want you to take over the magazine writing.’
‘Really … oh …’ Mark hasn’t mentioned it, but he’s giving me a goofy grin. ‘Of course. Great.’ I wind up a big smile. The phone rings. Pete walks away. Tash picks it up.
‘OK.’ She looks at me. ‘For you.’ I frown. It’s a bit early for client calls. Most respect the 9.30 work watershed.
It’s Sunny. Mick’s been taken into hospital again.
***
I hear the phone as I step through the front door. I hurry to the living room, bag still hanging from my shoulder. It’s Mum.
‘I hear you’re seeing Ashley, then.’ My heart dives, throat a knot of tense muscle. Fortunately, she doesn’t wait for me to speak. ‘Eleanor told us. Your dad skyped her.’ My parents skyped – a second seismic shock. ‘You kept that quiet.’
My bag drops to the floor. ‘Not really,’ I say, trying to gather my composure. ‘It’s all very … casual.’
‘I couldn’t believe it was THE Ashley at first,’ Mum says with palpable venom. ‘I thought it must be a different one. But then Eleanor said it was someone you went to primary school with—’
‘Yes,’ I interrupt, confirming her worst fears.
‘Oh Carolina, for goodness sake. After what he did?’
‘He had his reasons … you don’t know … it’s – complicated. Anyway, that was twenty years ago.’ I force out an extraordinarily long, deep breath.
Mum asks about his work, his family, falling disturbingly silent when I mention the separation from his wife.
‘It doesn’t sound like a very practical pairing, him being in London, and still being married, and—’
‘Well, we’re not planning a wedding or anything. We’re just enjoying seeing each other at the moment. Nothing more.’
‘Either way, it must be so difficult for poor Eleanor.’
My tongue-biting skills elude me. Non-combat Carrie leaves the living room on her Conflict Dodgem.
‘How bloody dare you, Mum! I’ll always put Eleanor first. But I’ve got a right to have a life, to try to find happiness.’ I can’t stop. ‘You haven’t got a clue what I’ve been going through in recent months. This isn’t about Eleanor. This is about you not liking Ashley. You never did, and didn’t even have the courtesy to hide it. And you bang on about bad manners. Well, I don’t care. I don’t need your approval any more. If you don’t like it then … bloody tough.’
I slam the phone into its cradle and crash on the chaise, the air ringing with my rage. I’ve just spoken to my mum in a way that no one ever dared, but I feel little shame, and no regret. I want to cry, but want to scream more. I do neither. I stare. I dig deep for some slow breaths and calming mantras, trying to recover from the shock at my eruption.
Heading upstairs to wash my face, I spot something as I pass Eleanor’s room – a newly-framed photograph on her desk, of the three of us, taken by a tourist as we rested on a wall during a clifftop walk in Rhodes. Dan’s in the middle, looking tanned and gorgeous in a pale pink T-shirt, his strong arms thrown around me and a baby-faced Eleanor, his gold watch turned silver by the sun. We look so happy, eyes shining. We were.
Poor Eleanor’s clinging on to the memories, holding them in a sturdy ceramic frame, making a statement – a protest perhaps – in the light of Ashley’s entrance into our lives.
I go downstairs, heat up some lazy mash. Sitting on the sofa, I stare at Dan’s armchair, wondering if I should move it, maybe sell it. I’ve never liked it and now it’s never used. I decide I can’t – or is it shouldn’t?
Perhaps Mum’s right. Was I being selfish to seek happiness with Ashley? Stupid to forgive him so readily? Was I being fair to Eleanor?
The phone rings again. I hesitate. It’s Kirsten. Can I call round sometime? She’d like to talk some more about possible support for Jayden.
I want to insist that her ex-boyfriend has a DNA test before I get involved – but I can’t say it. ‘Give me a few days,’ I say, cutting the call short.
I cough to clear some mash caught in my throat. A red mist descends and, in a flash, I hurl the bowl at Dan’s cushion, watching several clumps cling to the faux suede, while others slowly drop on to the seat of the chair.
I sob uncontrollably. I don’t want to cause my daughter more pain. I don’t want to care about disappointing my mum. I don’t want to be plagued by the past and harassed by some weird stalker, unsure whether my deceased husband had cheated. I don’t want to be hesitant about a new job, whether to move, where to go; uncertain about so much.
I want certainty. Damn you, Dan!
CHAPTER 27
Ashley’s proving elusive, so I call him before work.
‘Hey, I’m on the train, can I call back?’
I hear broken noises – fuzziness – then stifled sounds, distant and indistinct.
‘Oh, OK … when?’ The sound clarifies; it’s a woman’s voice in the background, soft but high-pitched.
‘Tonight? It’s just that—’
‘OK. Is someone with you?’
‘Yes … Lily, you know ... she’s on the train with me. She’s on her phone.’
‘Oh.’ I hesitate. ‘Is she in the play?’
‘Yes.’
Eleanor and I barely speak at breakfast. I don’t feel like it. Neither does she – it’s the morning of a science test. I stop staring at my cup of Lavazza to read an email from Sheena:
Hi Carrie. Hope things are better with you? Have you told your mum yet? Of course it won’t be easy for Eleanor, but you must consider your own happiness too. It’s clear how much you love her, she knows that. A friend offered to take Geoff’s car for a drive but the battery was flat again. I hate driving it – far too big – but Molly wants to, says my Honda’s a granny car! I’ve booked two driving lessons, but told her she needs a job to help pay for more. Geoff’s income is tied up in the firm and I can’t access it until he returns. On a course tomorrow. Yawn! Sheena xxx
Eleanor dashes in, grabbing several textbooks from a stack on the table. I follow her down the hallway, opening the door to some angry summer clouds. She plucks out one headphone to say goodbye, accepting a peck on the cheek.
‘Good luck with the science exam.’ I do a thumbs-up. Her lip curls.
Work’s marginally better than a science exam – though I find it testing. Tiredness doesn’t help. I’d slept badly, waking up hot and clammy, feeling slightly nauseous for the second morning that week, the dread of an early menopause rearing its head.
I’ve fallen behind with work, and Tash is up for lots of banter about being an auntie (her sister’s scan shows she’s further gone than medics had thought) and whether she should move to Brighton as the gay bestie is clearly not fit for fatherhood. She could get in some baby practice. Joel might join her, as it’s by the sea.
I sit on the bench at lunchtime, willing the old man to come, though I’m not sure why. He doesn’t.
Back home, Sunny calls to say Mick’s condition has stabilised. ‘I wondered about po
pping round with some leaflets for Tash on migraine remedies. I’ve also made a balm.’ There it is again – the caring side that makes me feel bad about my intolerance of Sunny. Her dad seriously ill, she’s being kind-hearted towards a colleague of mine she hardly knows.
I offer to drive to Sunny’s, determined not to hover pathetically by the phone or keep staring at my mobile, waiting for Ashley’s call. I wonder whether there’s any news on his nephew.
Sunny greets me, looking like a new character from Sesame Street in fluffy purple socks and equally hairy purple jumper. I force a snigger into the shape of a smile.
‘Hi. Thanks for driving over. Have you got time for a drink?’
‘Tea will be great,’ I say, following her inside. Sunny’s cups of coffee taste like they’ve been strained through a gymnast’s tunic. She summons me to the sofa with a tap on the throw, the loose, frayed sleeves of her jumper hanging over her hands as she passes me several leaflets.
‘There’s lots of information here for Tash. And … one moment ...’ she fetches a small glass pot from the shelf, ‘… if she rubs this gently on her temples here, in the little hollows …’ she places an index finger either side of her eyes, making circular movements. ‘… a few minutes twice a day’s fine, or more if the pain’s bad.’
‘Great,’ I say.
‘She’s having another treatment soon, but this will bring her some more relief meanwhile.’
I can’t decide whether it’s the right time to mention Ashley. Now that Mum knows. I consider it while Sunny’s in the kitchen.
‘I’m seeing someone,’ I say, heart skipping as she hands me a mug.
‘Oh, I wondered if you were.’
‘His name’s Ashley. We used to go to the same primary school.’
‘Does he live in Tetford?’ I feel Sunny’s still scrutiny.
‘No, London. He’s an actor – and photographer.’
‘Is he the one from the newspaper story?’
‘Yes.’ I’m surprised she’s made the connection.