by Andrea Darby
‘Really?’ I can’t conceal the shock.
‘Didn’t think I measured up. Edith’s family were all high achievers. It was true I worked in an accounts office, but my role was more clerical in the early years. I used to tell my wife I spent some of my wages at the pub with colleagues twice a week, but I was working overtime.
‘Nearly ended our marriage when she found out. But I’d done it because I was desperately in love and wasn’t going to risk letting her slip through the net. The most attractive, smartest woman I’d ever clapped eyes on. I knew she was the one that first night I saw her in Bridbury Dance Hall with her crazy curls and beautiful smile …’ He taps his cup on the side of the bench, emptying the dregs. ‘She forgave me – eventually – and years later, I qualified as an accountant.’
‘That’s … so – such a happy ending.’
He pulls his eyes wide, nodding. ‘I was a lucky man.’
Just then a rotund lady with a pale face and stiff perm the colour of my brushed chrome kettle wheels a beige shopping trolley over towards us.
‘Must go, the boss has arrived. Hope to see you again, Carrie.’ Gordon stands. ‘Your husband clearly loved you very much. That’s the thing to hang on to.’
He pecks the lady on the cheek, then extends a courteous arm to take the handle of her trolley as they totter off together.
He’d found someone new. I’m so happy for him. And for me.
***
After a fitful sleep, and several flushes that creep up through my body by stealth, like an internal intruder, I get up to a grey fuzziness that matches my mood. It’s only 5am.
I feel queasy again; exhausted from an endless churn of thoughts. I write an email to Sheena, relaying all the things that have kept my mind awake, how I wonder whether you can ever truly know someone. I still have no idea who’s responsible for the horrible notes, and the other malicious pranks. I believed Kirsten’s denial. She admitted everything else. I’m hurting over the hotel fiasco; something else Dan kept from me. However, I did feel I understood Sunny better, having witnessed her anguish over her Spanish lover, and seeing her cry for the first time. She’d exposed a vulnerable side. I’d realised the problem between us was as much mine as hers. In a postscript, I apologise to Sheena for being so gloomy. In a further postscript, I try to make amends, telling her about an advert I’ve seen for a TV documentary she might want to watch on missing people who’ve returned safe and well.
I shut the laptop and bury my head in my hands. I can’t face breakfast. I sit on the sofa staring at the Matisse Forget-Me-Nots print on the wall, its vivid colours dulled by dusk. Life’s so complicated, my feelings lurching this way and that.
Dan hadn’t cheated, but the intention had been there perhaps, albeit fuelled by booze and a devious, desperate younger woman. That night could so easily have ruined what we had, and almost certainly explained why he became so keen to avoid alcohol.
I’m eager to see Ashley, to tell him what I’m going through, to hold him, to sleep with him again. But he’s so busy. I have to settle for a call. Telling him about Dan’s sperm deceit, that it wasn’t me who was infertile, I try to picture the expression on his face, read into his words.
‘Poor you. I can’t believe what you’ve been put through. So many lies,’ he says.
But he has good news. A donor match has been found for his nephew. Depending on tests and procedures, the transplant will take place tomorrow. I’m overjoyed, yet anxious for the boy and all the family.
‘That’s the positive power of the media,’ I say. I wonder who the donor is. Someone determined to give life to another when their own’s over. A thought that leaves a deep impression.
On his only day off, Ashley has to take his car in for more repairs, he’s seeing his solicitor and dealing with a few other pressing financial things he doesn’t want to bore me with. He sounds a touch downcast – divorce proceedings come to mind. And he has a meeting about a big work project; ‘a real corker’ he teases, keeping it wrapped in mystery. I wonder why he’s being so secretive, if whatever it is will take him away from London and all his twisted ties – bring him closer to me. Birmingham perhaps.
‘Tell me more,’ I urge.
‘All in good time,’ he says.
I call Imogen to wish her luck. She’s preparing for a three-day break in Paris. I’d suggested it several times, but with a medic adamant that, hormones aside, she’s showing signs of exhaustion, Imogen has relented, finally acknowledging she’s taken on too much. I offer to have the girls but her sister, in Brittany, is the easier option.
‘Let’s see if Ben can get his frigid missus to lie back and think of England,’ she says facetiously.
‘Let’s see if you two can enjoy a well-earned rest and perhaps rekindle the passion,’ I correct.
After hanging up, I call the doctor to book an appointment. The first one available’s in two weeks.
‘Are you ill?’ Eleanor’s at the kitchen door, heavy eyes sweeping me up and down.
‘No. Think I’ve hit the menopause and need some advice.’
‘Isn’t that when you’re old?’
‘It can happen early. Grandma was only thirty-nine.’
Eleanor grimaces. Then when I mention having a chat with her this evening – no biggie, just about things in general, and about Ashley – she snaps my head off.
‘God, Mum, you’ve got a boyfriend, what’s the big deal? I don’t need this stress.’ She fling her arms into her blazer, making for the door.
‘You may not want to talk, young lady, but we need to,’ I say, trailing behind, determined not to relent this time.
‘For Christ’s sake.’ Her nostrils flare. ‘I’m so late.’ She storms off.
We’re going to talk – I’m determined, I tell myself in the hall mirror, surveying the bags under my eyes, checking for thinning skin, hairs, thread veins and other menopausal horrors I’ve heard about.
My day at work’s a slog and I can’t wait to get home. As I roll on to the drive, my thoughts are on Kirsten. I’ve decided not to tell anyone about the cheque, and hope it will help her in some way.
Looking ahead, my stomach appears to float up into my chest, heart hammering against it. The heads of all the flowers I planted in the top borders have been cut off and laid out on the paving in a pattern that resembles a capital ‘T’, with just a few stray blooms and petals straggled around. I can’t believe what I’m seeing; it’s beyond bizarre.
Feeling panicky, I run the wheels of the car over the disquieting display, then, realising my mistake, reverse again. I should have taken a photo perhaps, to show the police. It’s too late, so I dash to fetch the yard brush from the garage, sweeping the blooms, petals and a few scattered stems into a pile and pushing them into black bags. I grab the hose to shift petals stuck to the wheels of the car.
I’m thankful Eleanor’s at Freya’s, that she hadn’t witnessed any of this, though she’ll surely be suspicious seeing the colourful borders stripped to a sea of green.
I change out of my work clothes, returning to dig over the borders with a heavy garden fork and a heavier heart. Whoever did this was a complete crackpot. An act so painstaking and particular. Maybe a hundred flowers, each one beheaded so neatly.
In bed, I lie awake trying to decipher the significance of the letter ‘T’, though I wonder if the floral arrangement had originally been laid in a different shape. Some of the blooms had clearly been displaced, the culprit disturbed perhaps, or a few flowerheads dispersed by a light breeze. Such an unsettling act, one I just can’t fathom.
For the first time, I feel really frightened.
Next morning, after Eleanor’s left for school, I’m upstairs searching out the crime case number to contact the police when the phone rings. I dread another silent line. I hope it’s Ashley.
Reaching the living room, I hesitate, check the new caller display I’ve set up. It’s Sunny.
‘I’m afraid Mick passed away in the night.’
I gas
p. ‘I’m so sorry. Shall I come over?’
‘No, I’m at the hospital. I’ll call later.’
‘I’m sorry … about some of the things I said the other day.’
‘Let’s just put that aside now, shall we?’ Sunny declines my offer of help. She has lots to sort out. She’ll be at the care home most of the day.
I decide work’s the best place to be. Tash and Mark are great, drowning me in coffee and sympathy. Barbara hugs me so tightly I’m convinced the chain of her glasses has dug out part of my face. Even Pete’s gentle and attentive, twice asking if I’d rather go home. I don’t want to miss the meeting.
Pete gathers us all to proudly announce what we already know – his son’s taking over the business. He has ambitious plans to expand into the vacant office space next door.
At lunchtime, Tash dashes off to get waxed and I sit on the bench for a while. I still have no appetite – no doubt stress taking its toll. I wonder if Gordon will come, but he doesn’t. Maybe he’s at home watching Bargain Hunt with Mrs Perm or on an outing to some cherished place he hasn’t taken her to before.
When I return, Mark follows me into the kitchen with his low-calorie lunch, demanding to talk.
‘Let’s change the subject, really, I’m fine,’ I say, after a chat about all my worries. Mark had no idea about Dan’s fertility problem. He’s so relieved Kirsten has admitted the truth, makes me promise to call the police about yesterday’s incident.
‘That’s some serious nutter,’ he says.
Then he tells me he’s moving to Bristol. He’s lined up several job interviews on newspapers. He’ll be a lot closer to Jack. It happens to be where Georgia lives. Their relationship’s going well. I’m happy for him, but surprised; and sad, too.
‘I’ll miss you,’ I say. ‘Especially your bad jokes, and bad singing – oh, and flicking your cauliflower ear.’
‘You’ll find another colleague to abuse.’ Mark smiles.
‘Seriously. I’ll miss you.’
He puts down his tuna wrap, turning to give my shoulder a gentle rub, green eyes narrowed. Then he reaches out, takes both my hands.
‘Oh my God!’ Tash follows her loud voice into the kitchen and Mark swiftly lets go. ‘That woman was a sadist. Nearly pulled my minge off,’ she says.
We all roar.
***
I return home to find Sunny and Eleanor huddled on the sofa. Eleanor’s in tears and I guess what’s happened, even before Sunny dives in to apologise. She’d wrongly assumed Eleanor already knew her granddad had passed away, that she’d been with me when the bad news was delivered that morning. I can’t be cross. It was just unfortunate. But I regret that Eleanor had to find out in such a clumsy way. Sunny never turned up without calling first.
‘As I said to Eleanor, Mick wasn’t in any pain. He passed peacefully,’ Sunny soothes, eyes glazed and sore. She’s wearing a long turquoise cardigan, bag resting on her knees, gently stroking one side of Eleanor’s hair from root to tip. ‘He wouldn’t want you to be upset.’
Eleanor rubs at the snot beneath her nose. She looks like a ten-year-old again. She is still a child, I think – too young for what life’s dealt her. I lean over to give her a kiss. Eleanor lifts herself away from Sunny’s clutches, reaching to hug me. I wipe at the wet beneath Eleanor’s eyes. I know I’m pushing my luck. She doesn’t flinch.
‘I’ve got stuff to do.’ Eleanor stands. ‘More science.’
‘As if the school day isn’t long enough, poor thing,’ Sunny says. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot. I got you this, Elle. I know your other one snapped.’ She holds out another friendship bracelet, with delicately twisted turquoise and purple threads. ‘And I have two more for your friends.’
‘Cool. Thanks, Auntie.’ Eleanor cranks up a smile.
Sunny reaches back into her bag. ‘And this.’ It’s the quartz stone from her bookshelf.
‘That’s your special one, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. It’s been all over the world with me. I want you to have it.’
‘You sure? That’s awesome.’ Eleanor hugs her auntie.
‘Thanks, Sunny,’ I say, smiling.
After Eleanor leaves the room, it becomes clear there’s another reason for Sunny’s visit. She pulls a crumpled piece of paper from her bag.
‘This note was found in Mick’s bedside drawer.’ Looking down, her face is lost in a sea of caramel spirals. ‘The writing’s so shaky. The carer said Mick had been determined to use a pen again. He’d found ink marks all over his sheets.’ I sit on the chaise and Sunny stares; a slow blink – then another.
‘He may not be my father.’ I reel. Her gaze shifts between my stunned face and the note. ‘They both had a few affairs, or flings as he put it, in their hippy days. Mum had one with an American man. They both had doubts when I was born, but Mick didn’t want to face it, so it wasn’t mentioned.’
‘No. Surely ...’ I can’t continue. I want to ask about Dan.
‘Dan was definitely Mick’s child.’ Sunny smiles reassuringly. She must have read my mind.
So Dan may only be her half-brother. Poor Sunny. I can’t say it, and neither does she.
‘So it’s only a ‘maybe’ then?’ I try to sound hopeful.
‘I must go.’ Sunny stands. ‘I need to make calls.’
‘I’m so sorry. Did you have any idea?’
‘Yes, I always suspected … actually, I think I knew really.’ She swallows. I reach over, rubbing my hand gently on her arm. She lifts her hand to rest on mine. ‘There are some things you don’t really want confirmed, so you don’t ask. Dan was always all a brother could be; and more. And Mick, well, he loved us both dearly.’
So was that why she called him Mick?
And why Dan meant the world.
CHAPTER 29
‘I got the job.’ It’s a shock, saying it out loud.
‘That’s great, fair play.’ Ashley’s voice is deeper; fractured. Clearly, he’s not been awake long. ‘Nice one,’ he adds, with a muffled yawn. ‘I’m proud of you.’
‘I still can’t quite believe it,’ I say. I’m calling from the car on my way to work, trying hard to concentrate on the road. It’s an hour since the theatre manager gave me the news and it still hasn’t fully filtered through the part of my brain dealing with hard facts.
‘Let’s celebrate. How about next Wednesday? I should be able to clear the whole day. Can you get time off? Course you can, you can’t be sacked now.’
‘True,’ I chuckle, indicating left. ‘Great. I’ll sort something – I can’t wait.’
There’s a slight twinge of disappointment that he’s so pleased for me; he hadn’t decided to talk me out of the job at the eleventh hour. But I’m consoled by the news his nephew’s op went well, and by the secret project Ashley had previously mentioned, wondering what the implications could be.
‘We’ve put the house on the market,’ Ashley says. ‘The agent’s already had lots of interest and expects a quick sale. That should help sort the finances a bit.’
‘Fantastic.’ I almost hear the snipping sound of one of his ties being cut. I sense we’re moving much closer to a frank discussion about our future.
Mark and Tash are stoked when I burst into the office with my news. Tash claps so frantically a fake nail shoots into her mug and it’s a good job her headaches have improved – turns out she needed glasses; and less alcohol – because she lets out an ear-piercing guffaw that could drown out a symphony orchestra. The hysteria draws Barbara, then Pete, into the room prematurely – it’s only 8.59! Fortunately, they both accept the commotion’s purely prompted by the flying falsey and return to duties. I don’t want Pete to know about the job before I’m ready to give official notice.
We celebrate with cream cakes. Now the nausea thing’s passed, I have an insatiable appetite. Then Tash turns mushy and maudlin.
‘I’m so going to miss you, babe.’ She hangs off my arm. ‘Pinkie pledge you’ll stay in touch. Oh my God, that’s both of you going, I can’t bea
r it. Perhaps I will go to Brighton next year.’
Mark has already handed in his notice. He flicks a smile at Tash before his eyes rest in line with mine and I’m compelled to look away.
I feel so elated that, driving home, I imagine Ashley’s secret to be a leading role in a ground-breaking Shakespeare production set for a huge Midlands and West Country tour that I could go and see a dozen times. I picture us on a rich, burgundy sofa in the cosy living room of a 1930s house with a brick and brass fireplace, chrome wall sconces with milk-glass shades, my satin pencil pleats hung in extra heavy folds at the picture window and the photograph of Ashley as Hamlet lit up on the wall.
I return to an email from Sheena:
Hi Carrie. So sorry to hear about your fallout with Sunny – it sounds like you cleared the air at least. I’m glad Kirsten’s admitted lying. Life must be pretty bad for her to do such a vicious thing. I understand your upset at Dan keeping the infertility problem from you, but male pride’s a funny thing – I suspect it’s more common than you think. The important thing is you know he still loved you, enough to want to be with you forever. I wish I was sure Geoff feels the same about me. I keep wondering if I drove him away. Thanks for the tip-off on that ‘Missing’ programme. It was quite uplifting. I had six missed calls on my mobile from an ‘unknown’ number on Friday. I wondered if perhaps it was Geoff on a new phone, but when I called back it was one of those annoying sales calls. Molly loved her driving lessons and I’ve started Pilates. It’s tougher than I thought! Sheena xxx
I call Mum. She’s been a little curt with me since our frank exchange – even though we’ve both apologised –but she sounds genuinely pleased about the job and is far more talkative again. Her voice still turns sharp at any mention of Ashley, but I appreciate that she’s trying.
Then I contact the police about the flowers incident. The officer taking notes is astounded.
‘Well, that’s a new one on us,’ he declares, sounding almost amused, following up with a few half-hearted questions.