‘I can do the maths,’ she said, tightening up the dressing gown.
‘What about my mum then?’ I said, thinking I’d appeal to her better nature.
She raised her chin. ‘What about her?’ And then she sighed. ‘He said you’d be upset.’
‘Upset?’
‘I’m sorry about your mum but that’s his problem, isn’t it? His business, I mean. He’s an adult. He … I mean I wouldn’t have dreamt of chasing after him. I’m not a home wrecker. Anyway, we hardly see each other, don’t get much of a chance. It’s more a friendship.’
‘If he leaves Mum …’
‘Whoa,’ she said, ‘hold your horses.’
‘But if he does.’
‘You’re afraid you’d be dumped on, is that it?’
Her neck was slender, her hair was long. Something smug about her in that way of pretty girls, like they think they’ve got one over on you just by existing. It brought back a feeling I’d had from Isobel when she was always right, her big-sister smugness and goody-goodyness and the frustration that would boil up in me though never any comeback because she was older and always right. It’s possible that maybe once or twice I wished her dead but only in the middle of the frustration.
What happened next wasn’t in my plan and I can’t quite remember straight. I think I only wanted a feel of her hair, which was so much like Isobel’s, but she moved and my hand somehow got her tit, I felt the slide of it against the silk and the gown fell open as she jerked away and there was her dark bush on display. She seemed to be coming on to me then – her eyes close up and wide open, huge, so dark, darker than Isobel’s and with more of a slant to them and this sweet smell to her – but when I touched her she froze up and said in this gritted voice to back off or she’d call the police.
What was she doing inviting me in when she was hardly dressed? I backed off like she said and she wrapped the dressing gown round her tight and huddled back against the sink. The kids didn’t even look up from the box when I went. The screwed-up article was still there in the dirt and I thought of the picture of Isobel which I should have given more respect and put it in my pocket, then I sat in the car to get my head straight before I drove away.
Chapter 23
*
On Sunday, as usual, Fay came to supper. Though she’d painted her face and sprayed her thin hair rigid, she looked pinched and rickety. She and Charlie hugged and the tears stood in their eyes, but did not fall. When Fay sat in the armchair waiting for the meal, her little feet did not quite touch the floor.
She lifted and lowered her metallic shutters. ‘You’ve got a new style,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Sherry?’
‘You should try it long,’ Fay said. ‘Remember Nicky’s hair, Charlie? Like a cornfield.’
He grimaced at me. I went through into the kitchen to fetch the drinks. Harvey’s Bristol Cream for Fay, vodka and tonic for us, and a bowl of cashew nuts. I stood listening to the rain against the window and the faint crackle of roasting potatoes. Condensation ran down the windows. It was cosy. Charlie hadn’t mentioned the bird-warden job all weekend. I thought it was forgotten.
I carried the tray of drinks through. Charlie was poring over something. ‘Dave’s friend Barry came to see me this morning,’ Fay explained. ‘He found Dave’s wallet in his flat.’
‘What was it doing there?’ I said, handing her the gold-rimmed sherry glass we kept especially for her.
‘He was always losing things,’ Charlie said. He was emptying the wallet and lining the contents up on the coffee table. It was just what you’d expect: bankcard; bus ticket; a tenner; a packet of Rizlas with phone numbers scribbled on the flap; a voucher for a free pizza. He lay each item down with a special kind of reverence as if they were about to add up to some new meaning.
‘Gave him quite a turn, he told me, finding it,’ Fay said. ‘It had got into an old Radio Times. He thought we might want it.’
I handed Charlie his drink. ‘Cheers.’ I chinked my glass against his and Fay’s.
‘Nuts?’ I offered Fay the bowl.
‘Not with my teeth.’
‘Anything else?’
She gave a tight little shake of her head.
I crunched a cashew nut. ‘I love rainfall,’ I said.
Charlie gave me an odd look. I don’t know what was wrong with that.
‘On the windows, I mean, the smell and the sound of it and everything.’
Fay picked up the wallet and held it to her cheek. There was a long silence.
‘Let’s eat,’ I said. I had set the table carefully with a white rose from the garden in a narrow vase and one thick green candle I’d found in the cupboard, which I lit as we sat down.
Fay examined each forkful of roast chicken and sighed. Charlie kept looking at me nervously.
‘What?’ I said, in the end.
‘Nothing. This is great, thanks.’ But it was an effort for him to eat. I shouldn’t have bothered. I’d thought a roast would be good on a rainy day. I’d thought we’d draw together as families do, comforted by each other and the food. But the chicken was comforting no one, congealing greasily on the
plates. And there was a horrible oily whiff, faint at first but getting stronger.
‘What’s that smell?’ I said.
‘The candle,’ Charlie said. ‘It’s meant for outdoors – to keep bugs away.’
‘You could have said!’ I blew it out but the snuffed odour was even worse. We sat in silence. I wished I’d thought of music to help the mood. It was too late now.
‘Finished?’ I asked Fay and she put her knife and fork together gratefully. There seemed to be more on her plate than when she’d started.
I fetched the thawed-out cheesecake from the fridge and put it on the table. The squashed rosettes of cream were tinged pink from the scarlet of the berries and colour had also run into the cheesy middle.
Fay tilted her little nose and sniffed. ‘I, for one, am quite replete,’ she said.
‘Maybe some fruit, or cheese …’
‘Nina. She’s had enough,’ Charlie said.
I forced a smile and hefted a slice of the soggy cheesecake on to Charlie’s plate and on to mine. I took a mouthful. It was heavy, damp and over-sweet, the berries still frozen in their centres.
Charlie cleared his throat. ‘Mum,’ he said, ‘I’m thinking of going away for a bit.’
I swallowed and put down my fork.
‘Where?’ Fay said.
‘Orkney.’
‘Orkney!’ she said, as if it was the moon.
‘Just for a few months. Relief bird warden. Nina and I’ve discussed it.’
Fay darted me a look and I nodded.
He said, ‘It’s just what I need in my … career break.’
‘So it’s all decided?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘I mean, no … nothing’s definite.’
She looked from Charlie to me and picked up her glass. She had lasted her sherry right through supper and now she finished it.
‘More?’ I said and was amazed when she said yes.
‘So you and Nina can look after each other.’ Charlie began with an attempt at bravado that fell away before he’d finished.
‘If you go,’ I said.
Fay and I glanced at each other and quickly away.
I took Fay’s glass and went to pour her sherry.
‘It wouldn’t be so bad, would it?’ I said, handing her the glass. ‘Girls together.’
I tried to read her eyes but they were just old eyes, the blue running into the white in a way that reminded me of the cheesecake. But when it was time for her to go downstairs, something happened to give me hope. I bent down to give her my usual hug and instead of a stiff armful of twigs I felt something give, a slight return of pressure.
On Monday there was no call from Rupert. When I left work he was not there. Rain plaited itself in the gutters and I was grateful to hide under my umbrella, though I felt a thread of disappointment. I’d imagi
ned how it would have been if I’d told Charlie. My story was ready and rehearsed: a night of tears, a long walk pouring out our hearts. On impulse, I’d say, we’d booked into a country hotel with a roaring log fire and made love in a four-poster before dinner with champagne, no not champagne … red wine … and roast beef maybe, a lavish pudding trolley … It was almost a shame not to be able to tell him all of that.
By Friday, I’d stopped jumping whenever the phone rang. The sun came out again and steamed the rain away. I was enjoying the daily updates on the progress of Christine’s romance.
‘Don’s a right laugh,’ she said, ‘and that’s more important than looks, don’t you think? We’ve been out eight times now if you count the first time. You could count that as steady, couldn’t you? We went to that new Thai place last night, been?’
I shook my head.
‘You should, it’s brilliant, if you like it hot.’
‘Yes, maybe we will,’ I said.
Christine and I left work together. She was telling me what she was planning to wear when she met Don’s parents for the first time on Sunday. We stepped out into the gluey afternoon heat, smiling, and then I saw the tall figure leaning against the wall.
‘There’s that guy,’ she said.
‘I’m going this way,’ I said. I walked fast to the corner and when I turned back to look, I saw that they were talking. My instinct was to bolt but then they saw me, and he came towards me.
‘What did you say to her?’ I said.
‘This and that,’ he said. ‘You shot off in a very suspicious manner. You’ll have people talking.’
He smiled and the beginnings of lines crinkled round his eyes. He was wearing linen trousers and a black T-shirt; the pale jacket slung over one shoulder.
‘Well?’ I said.
Christine walked past. ‘Fancy a coffee?’
‘Got to get home,’ I said. ‘Good luck on Sunday.’
‘Sure?’ Her pale eyes quizzed mine. ‘OK then. Ta.’ She smiled uncertainly and wobbled away on her heels.
‘Come and have a drink,’ Rupert said.
‘There’s no point in this,’ I said. ‘I did tell Charlie.’
‘Oh yes?’
I opened my mouth but my story, the roaring fire, the trolley of desserts, seemed ridiculous in the hot street. All I could smell was exhaust.
‘Come on.’ He got hold of my arm and steered me round the corner. We went into the Tavern, a dark, smoky place full of flashing, squealing games machines and a gigantic screen showing cricket. A girl eyed him up as we went in and gave me a dirty look. I felt a despicable flicker of pride.
He ordered a couple of beers and we sat down. I watched the lights of a machine, the numbers 54321 spiralling downwards again and again.
‘Where do you live?’ I said. ‘I mean, doesn’t your wife wonder where you are?’
‘She’s not bothered. I’ve moved here.’
‘What?’
‘To be near you.’
I tried to stand but he drew me back down.
‘That’s mad, Rupert.’
‘I told her about you.’
‘No.’
‘I’ve left her.’
‘No!’ My voice came out loud enough for the barman to look up, eyebrows raised till I nodded my head at him.
‘Do you think I should have lied?’ Rupert said.
‘I don’t know.’ I tasted the beer but the thin yeasty edge of it puckered my mouth. ‘I hope you haven’t really done anything so drastic because of me,’ I said. ‘Charlie was upset but he’s forgiven me. We’re not splitting up. I can’t see you again. This is it. Finito.’ I sliced my hand through the air.
He licked a trace of beer-froth from his lips and looked into my eyes. I could see slivers of moving light in his, red, white, yellow, green and small reflections of myself. It’s the pigmentation in dark eyes, you rarely see yourself like that in blue. I sat back and away from him.
‘Test your nerve,’ said a computerised voice and there was a volley of machine-gunfire. It made me laugh.
‘That’s it,’ he said, ‘lighten up.’
‘You didn’t really leave her for me?’ I said.
‘Among other reasons.’
‘I’m glad there are other reasons because I’m not one.’
He swilled the beer round in his glass and took another sip.
‘You’ll meet someone else,’ I said, gentling my voice. ‘You’re so gorgeous.’
‘You think so?’
‘You know that.’
He held my gaze for a minute and I had to tear my eyes away. ‘Why me? Look at that girl over there … look at that woman …’
‘Don’t put yourself down,’ he said. ‘I like the hair, actually. A bit Audrey Hepburn.’
I puffed out a laugh. What rubbish! I picked up a beer-mat and rotated it in my hands. He took it from me and kept hold of my hand. You can have chemistry with someone even if you don’t like them. I could feel the chemicals fizzing in my blood.
‘Have you really told him?’ he asked and the question caught me all wrong. I said yes, but he knew I was lying even though I looked him straight in the eye. ‘Yes,’ I said again. ‘And promised never to see you again.’
‘You’ve already broken that promise.’
‘That’s your fault.’
‘I know someone he knows,’ he said. ‘It’d be child’s play for me to find out.’
All the fizziness drained away and I withdrew my hand. ‘Who?’ I said.
‘John.’
I didn’t know a John – or was there someone at work he used to mention? It was such a common name, everyone knows a John, and if I were bluffing I would have said John too.
‘John what?’
‘Smith,’ he said.
‘Come on.’ Someone won the jackpot on a fruit machine and shouted Yes! and there was the steady chunter of pumping coins.
‘It is a common name,’ he said, ‘because there are a lot of them. I have a drink with him now and then. And so does Charlie, as you’ll know.’
‘Of course,’ I said.
‘Of course,’ he mimicked and there was a change in the way he looked at me, a hardening edge to his smile. ‘You need to brush up on your lying, Nina Todd.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll ask John to talk to Charlie about it,’ he said. ‘Be seeing you.’ He strode out of the pub. I watched the door swing open and shut again. I waited a moment, pushed the horrible beer away, went out and hailed a passing cab. I would go straight home and confess. It was only a stupid little fling. He’d surely forgive me that.
But when I got home, the car wasn’t in the drive. The kitchen had the air of a room rushed out of: a half-eaten slice of cheese on toast; a book open; the bird-warden’s letter on the table beside the phone. I took a bite of the rubbery toasted cheese. My stomach was a knot of snakes. I chucked the rest in the bin. And then I saw a note scrawled on the top of the RSPB letter.
Ring me on mob. Urgent. Cxxxx
My teeth were greasy from the cheese. I sat down. Maybe John Smith had already rung him … but that was stupid. There was no John Smith. I made a cup of strong coffee and braced myself – but when I rang his phone was switched off. Why ask me to phone and then switch it off? The coffee buzzed through me and I couldn’t sit still. There were crumbs on the table and flecks of grated cheese. I got a cloth and wiped it, sprayed it, wiped it; decided to clean the kitchen window and then the phone rang and it was Charlie.
‘Mum’s had a fall. We’re in Casualty.’ He rang off. A fall, I thought, that doesn’t sound too bad. She’d tripped over a kerb; or slipped in the kitchen. She’d be all right. I was more worried for Charlie.
We met at the entrance to the ward and I put my arms round him. ‘She’s broken her hip,’ he said into my hair. ‘She’s badly shocked, I’ve never seen her so … small.’
‘Poor Fay,’ I said. ‘Poor you.’
‘She’s sedated. She’s got to have an operation to pin it.’
I hugged him tighter.
Past his shoulder I saw a sign with a mobile phone crossed out. SWITCH OFF it said. They could have added PLEASE, I thought. You should be gentle with people in shock.
We went in to take a peep at Fay. She did look tinier than ever and older too; her unpainted eyelids stretched yellow in their cavernous sockets; her little coconut head balanced on a fat white pillow. Charlie took one of her hands and raised it to his lips.
‘It’s OK, Mum,’ he said and her eyes opened, liquid slits of blue, and looked straight at me.
‘Hello, Fay,’ I said. She closed her eyes again. ‘Whatever happened?’ I asked.
‘Stairs,’ Charlie said. ‘I heard the crash.’
‘Good job you were there,’ I said. ‘What a shock though.’
We sat hand in hand for an hour or so while Fay slept. I stroked her thin puff of hair and felt the warmth of her skull, the strong beat of her life. The food trolley came round.
‘She can’t eat, she’s sedated,’ Charlie said, but the woman shrugged and dumped a tray down anyway. On the tray were a defeated salad and a dish of tinned peaches. I went to the window and looked down at roofs and the tops of cars queuing at the lights. Charlie came and gazed out with me. ‘Funny,’ he said, ‘all those people out there going about their lives. Makes you realise, doesn’t it?’ He turned to me. ‘You look shattered. Let’s go home.’
‘You stay,’ I said. ‘What if she wakes and wants you?’
‘I need to collect her nightie and things.’
‘I’ll bring those,’ I said.
‘Sure?’
‘Of course!’
He walked me to the lift and we stood together waiting. ‘Well, that decides that,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Orkney. Would you ring and explain?’
‘Wait and see how she is,’ I said. ‘We don’t have to let them know tonight, do we?’
‘I couldn’t leave her now,’ he said. ‘She’ll need me – and the car.’
‘I can look after her.’
‘But you don’t drive.’
‘Why don’t you see about the relatives’ room?’ I said. ‘I’ll bring your stuff in later. And we’ll worry about the job tomorrow.’ I hugged him. ‘You need a clean T-shirt,’ I said, sniffing. ‘It’ll be all right. Don’t worry. She’s not going to give up that easily!’
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