by Clare Boyd
‘Is it the clinic?’ John asked.
‘Yes.’
As he watched her walk up the shingle, speaking intensely into her phone, he began to worry.
When she returned, her mood had changed, as though a plug had been pulled. She did not look relieved, but her face looked wide open with shock.
‘What did he say?’
She exhaled and held her hair down. ‘They don’t have Robert’s medical records.’
‘Why not?’
‘Apparently, Robert stopped being a patient of his in 1990.’
Taken aback, John said, ‘He was only sixteen then.’
‘Yes,’ she replied, throwing a pebble into the sea.
‘I was sure Robert told me he saw Dr Baqri about his insomnia.’
‘I’ve been concocting conspiracy theories, John. Just forget about it,’ she mumbled, chucking a big rock into the water. It clonked on the surface and disappeared, leaving a hole in the murky foam.
But he could not forget about it now. The more John thought about it, the more certain he became about the conversation he had shared with Robert about Dr Baqri.
It had been summer time. They had been sitting on the decking at Byworth End. Robert had been spirited, and they had both been quite drunk. John had passed comment on how well rested he looked. It had prompted a conversation about his insomnia, and how much more energy he had after a recent period of good sleep. ‘Thanks to Dr Baqri,’ he had said, very specifically, winking at his mother. She had just come out to place a large jug of Pimm’s in front of them, and scolded them for dwelling on depressing subjects on such a pretty day.
But why had Robert lied to him?
* * *
John let himself in through the front door of Byworth End, safe in the knowledge that his mother was at her Pilates class and that his father was clay pigeon shooting.
He could hear Valentina hoovering in the sitting room. He snuck past her and crept upstairs to his parents’ bathroom.
Inside the medicine cabinet, he looked around for the pill bottle and then he remembered Francesca telling him that his mother had put it in a red washbag. He hurried into his parents’ bedroom.
Instantly, he became overwhelmed by the smell of his mother’s perfume.
By her bedside there was a little dish filled with her gold rings and long necklaces; laid on the bed was a white kaftan. In a rush, he was a little boy by the pool again.
A crack of light appeared through the opening door of the poolhouse.
Their beautiful mother had appeared. Backlit by the bulb behind her, the shape of her body was visible through the diaphanous cotton of her kaftan, fluttering so close to Robert’s face. His small figure was crouched underneath the cobwebbed window, in the shadows to her right.
John took a step back, further under the conifer tree, shivering, teeth chattering, watching, worried his breathing was too loud. He wanted to run back to bed and snuggle under his duvet, but he couldn’t leave Robert now.
A surge of guilt and shame blocked out more. He sat on the bed. His breathing became erratic. A new, burning curiosity about these pills, about everything that his mother might have been hiding from him, remotivated his search.
Finally, he found the red washbag tucked away at the back of her sock drawer.
Just as Francesca had said, the little brown pill bottle was inside. He unscrewed the white cap and shook out some oblong white pills. The pharmaceutical make of the pills was carved across each tablet, but it did not correlate with the name on the label of the bottle.
Francesca had been right.
Valentina’s vacuum cleaner fell silent downstairs. He held his breath. It then started up again, but louder, closer. Worried he would be caught snooping, he closed the pill bottle, grabbed a pair of his father’s golf shoes – his alibi – and dashed downstairs to Valentina.
Valentina switched off the Hoover with her arthritic fingers. ‘John! Ola! Handsome chicky-dee,’ she cried, pinching his cheeks and pushing his hair back.
‘Hi, Valentina,’ he said, kissing her cheek, smelling aniseed on her breath, and olive oil in her scraped-back grey bun. Her black eyes screwed up like raisins in her lined face when she smiled at him.
‘Your mumma, your papa, is out.’
‘I know, I was just borrowing Dad’s golf shoes.’ John never played golf.
She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Si?’
‘Not really,’ he confessed. Then, he pulled out the pill bottle and held it up. ‘Have you ever seen these before?’
‘Is your Uncle Ralph’s pills?’
Baffled for a second, he said, ‘Not Uncle Ralph’s. No. They’re Robert’s.’
She threw her stout arms up in the air and switched on the Hoover again. ‘Oh. Si. Si. Me desculpe. Si. Si. They Robert’s.’
‘Why does Mum still have them? Do you know?’ he shouted over the noise.
She waved him away. ‘Não. No.’
He went to the plug socket and pressed it off.
She waggled her finger at him. ‘Naughty boy.’
John laughed. All his life, he had heard her say that to him. She had been the one to mete out the rules and punishments: to tell them off when they were rude; to slap their wrists if they waved their cutlery about; to stand over them as they struggled with their homework. In equal measure, she had doled out as much love. If he or Robert had cried, she fed them spice cookies and wiped their tears away with her apron before their parents noticed. Neither of his parents had approved of boys crying.
‘You still so beautiful, chicky.’ She beamed a big, gummy-toothed smile and bustled over to the socket to turn it on again. ‘But I busy,’ she shouted.
He shook the pill bottle at her again and she blinked furiously, shaking her head.
‘Is Robert’s,’ she repeated emphatically, frowning. ‘You put them back. Si?’
John knew her well, and noted a hint of panic in her voice. He wanted to question her further. Her frown stopped him. It was a warning to back off.
For now, he accepted that she was giving nothing away.
But he was certainly not going to put the bottle back.
Chapter Twenty
12 years ago
The chilly draught from the crypt crept around Francesca’s ankles. The rustling of the layers of organza on her dress were loud every time she moved. Her shoulders were bare. She felt entirely naked. Behind her, the congregation would be staring and grinning. A few tears would be shed. Camilla’s sob echoed around her head. Robert’s deep-set blue eyes darted around her, everywhere but on her; the vague scent of whisky on his breath.
She listened to the priest ramble on, while her feet ached in her satin shoes, and she wondered what she was doing standing there. It was meant to be the happiest day of her life and it was turning out to be her worst nightmare. An extravaganza of ice sculptures, expensive chairs and small-time DJs waited for them at Byworth End under the marquee on the lawn. She should have been walking on air.
Searching, searching, searching Robert’s face for the love she wanted to feel, she saw the man who had taken twenty-nine paracetamol tablets three weeks before; she saw the man who said he loved her more than life itself. She was going through with the ceremony, to save face, to save them. To save him. Amen.
And there John stood, next to his brother, in a matching suit, so dangerously near to her she could have reached out to touch him. They were friends, yes, but as best man, he looked like a groom. Mentally, she reworked the ensemble of people around her, switching Robert for John, like a photographer might rearrange his subjects for a pleasing shot. In her head, it looked better. The configuration worked for her, settled her soul. But John was not holding the ring to put it on her finger, he was holding it for his brother. Robert looked too anxious for the occasion. John, too sombre.
To calm her nerves, she imagined that every woman in the congregation would also be staring longingly at John. She was just one of the crowd. He had not chosen her. Robert had.
/> During the first dance, she and Robert shuffled self-consciously on the uneven parquet floor, and the champagne pushed away her doubts. When she sought out John’s face in the circle of other guests, she saw that he was not there. She was relieved, and she felt proud and safe in her new husband’s arms.
Chapter Twenty-One
Francesca
Hi Fran, hope the wasps are gone. Fancy a drink tonight? Paul
I’ll ask Camilla if she can babysit. F x
Cool.
Hi Paul – she can. Where do you want to meet? F x
See you at the Dog and Pheasant at 8pm.
I got dressed into my black T-shirt with the glittery shoulders, and I trimmed my fringe with nail scissors. My heeled boots, which I was wearing for the first time in two years, felt brand new.
Tonight was going to be an antidote to the Tennants. A cure for the ills of my in-laws. After the dead end of Robert’s non-existent Harley Street medical records, I wanted to forget about those sleeping pills. Even though John had been mistaken in Dr Baqri, he was right about one thing: I had been looking for something that wasn’t there.
Ahead of me, across the moonlit expanse of grass, I was conscious that Paul was already sitting outside, a small candle bobbing in its holder on the table in front of him. I tried to walk as normally as possible towards him. But I sensed that his eyes were not the only eyes watching me. Robert seemed to be present in the blinking stars and bright moon above me, probably laughing at me hobble across the green in my heels, which sunk into the grass with every step. I imagined him wanting to catapult balls of star fire down on Paul’s head.
The candle flame blew in the wind, changing the shadows over his face. I had a vision of John sitting there waiting for me instead; in another life, in another universe.
He half stood to kiss me on the cheek, and our cheekbones clashed. He smelt of aftershave, which was a little strong.
‘Drink?’
‘Yes, please. Whatever you’re having.’
I should have gone to the bar myself, to choose and buy my own drink, show him I was an independent woman, but all my energy was caught up in surviving what felt like a betrayal of Robert’s memory.
‘A pint of bitter?’
I hesitated, trying to remember if I liked bitter. ‘Yes, please. But a half pint.’
While I waited for him, I stared at the golden bubbles shooting upwards in his pint glass. They were trying to escape to the surface, wriggling up desperately, but then dying a death the second they reached the surface.
The door to the pub opened, letting out a burst of chatter and clinking from inside. We were the only two people outside. I realised it was chilly and I hadn’t brought my jacket. But I was enjoying the peacefulness. The dark silhouetted trees, the pink stripes across the grey sky.
‘Want to go inside?’ he asked.
‘No. It’s lovely out here.’
‘Yes. It is.’ He exhaled as he looked across the green. When he sat down, he passed me his black denim jacket. ‘Here. Wear this if you like.’
It was huge and it swamped me, and I wondered why I had bothered dressing up. I imagined he was the kind of man who didn’t notice what a woman wore. And then I imagined wearing nothing, in front of him, and fear gripped me. My body was ruined by childbirth; my physical self had been weakened by grief. If he wanted to have sex with me, ever, I would have to be clothed and the light would have to be off.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘Did I laugh?’
‘Almost.’
I took a sip. ‘I like this, actually.’
‘Not your usual?’
‘I don’t know.’ I didn’t have a usual anything any more.
He peered at me over his pint glass with a hint of a smile and a raised eyebrow. He thought I was weird, plainly.
‘Who’s looking after Alice?’
‘Camilla.’
He nodded. ‘I imagine she spoils her rotten.’
‘She adores her, yes.’
‘I bet Alice loves living close to John’s three.’
‘She hasn’t got siblings, so, you know…’ I trailed off.
‘Harry’s a great kid.’
‘He is, isn’t he?’
‘Terrible at cricket, poor lad.’
I chuckled. ‘Why do they put him through it?’
‘John only makes him play when he knows the wife’s coming to watch. He lets him read mostly.’
‘Really?’
‘John’s our star player but some days he’ll sit out with Harry pretending he’s too hungover to see the ball. They sit on the deckchairs, watching and chatting away. They’re like a couple of old women.’
‘John’s a great dad. Really hands-on.’
‘Doesn’t his wife – sorry, what’s her name?’
‘Dilys.’
‘Doesn’t Dilys work in the City or something?’
‘Property. She’s an estate agent for the super-rich.’
‘She must earn a proper packet to afford a house like that.’
‘John is really successful, too. Not that you’d ever hear it from him.’
‘Writing films?’
‘TV mostly.’
‘Nice guy. Very quiet. Never sure what’s on his mind, though.’ Paul tapped his head. I imagined his skull was formed with Neanderthal nodules underneath his tough, tanned skin. Everything about Paul looked strong. The deep grooves around his eyes, the thick veins running across his muscles.
‘Let’s not talk about the Tennants.’
‘They do tend to dominate this village.’
‘Imagine being married into them…’
He smiled, uncertainly. ‘Do you find it difficult?’
‘Camilla’s difficult.’
‘So I’ve heard.’
‘Have you?’
He finished the last of his drink. ‘The old dears around here have wagging tongues.’
‘What do they say about her?’
He knocked back his empty glass, as though finishing it off, but there was nothing left. ‘Not much,’ he replied. ‘Another one?’
‘Go on. Tell me the gossip about her, Paul.’
He stood with the empty glasses in his hand. ‘Honestly, nothing. They just say she’s a right old busybody.’
I guffawed. ‘You can say that again. You know, she actually cut her own key to my house, without asking me! Can you believe it?’
‘From what I’ve heard, I can.’ He was still standing there, with our glasses, ready to get more drinks, but I was on a roll.
‘She loves micro-managing everyone’s lives. I literally have no independence left. They half-own my house, they have part-ownership of Alice. I basically rely on them for everything. It’s pathetic, really.’
‘You need a job,’ he said, over his shoulder, as he turned to go inside for more drinks.
I sat in the dark, quiet beer garden, listening to an owl’s eerie call, and I contemplated the search for a job.
When he returned, I said, ‘But I have no skills outside the film industry.’
‘What did you used to do?’
‘I was a scenic painter.’
‘What does that involve?’
‘Painting loads of set walls, and sometimes painting the props. I loved doing that.’ To illustrate, I brought my phone out and scrolled through my photographs, showing him my before-and-after snaps: before – a fibreglass container, after – a Victorian marble butler sink, the effect done completely with paint; and then an MDF box that I had transformed into a smart antique mahogany blanket box; followed by a cheap IKEA toy that had become an old Victorian keepsake.
‘So, you’re an artist.’
‘Sort of. And a painter and decorator, of sorts.’
‘My mates at the station do a lot of that on the side. They earn a bloody fortune.’
‘Well, believe me, I can turn a beautiful white room into a damp, mouldy hellhole.’ I chuckled, feeling whimsical about the many period film sets that I had transformed,
from whitewashed to Dickensian, and how I would lose myself in the detail of the work.
‘Shabby chic?’ he grinned.
‘Oh my god. You have no idea how many chests of drawers I painted and sanded down for friends when that look was in.’
Midway through a sip of his pint, Paul put his glass down. ‘What about asking around for work in the local furniture shops? Wisborough has a few.’
‘Wisborough has that lovely paint shop, doesn’t it?’
‘That’s right. Archie Parr’s.’
‘It’s so rare to find someone mixing paint by hand these days. I was a bit cheeky and asked the guy working in there if I could mix some hot pink in the back room. For Alice’s bedroom.’
‘Was it Archie?’
‘No, it was Toby or Tony, or someone. He was young.’
‘Probably a student. Archie’s always looking for assistants. You could ask him if he has any work coming up.’
‘That’s quite a good plan.’
‘A good Plan B, perhaps?’
‘Perhaps.’
He held up his pint glass and chinked mine. ‘Cheers to Plan Bs.’
As I locked eyes with Paul, I felt a little more in control of my life again. He had reminded me to be more confident about my future, and I felt a rush of gratitude for him. At the beginning of the evening, I might have been using him as a deflection from the Tennants, but now I genuinely wanted to know more about him as a person.
‘We’ve talked about me all night. How is your Plan B going?’
‘Mine is all about the kids.’
‘Show me some pictures.’
He rummaged in his pocket and brought out his phone, scrolled through and showed me a picture of a little girl, about ten years old, with waist-length black hair and a round, very pretty face; and then a skinny, white-blonde, younger girl, whose features looked exactly like Paul’s.
‘Beautiful. They are so different.’
‘Georgie, the oldest, isn’t mine, technically, but she is really, if you get my meaning. Her dad left when she was one and I met Katie shortly after, and then we had Sylvie after that.’