Young Wives' Tales

by Adele Parks

  Luke picks up the wicker basket of cakes and offers her one.

  ‘No, thank you. I’m not a fan of shop-bought cakes,’she says. How did the she-devil know they were shop-bought? ‘Besides, I’m in a bit of a hurry.’

  ‘No doubt you have somewhere special to go,’I comment. Under my breath I add, ‘after all, it is Hallowe’en.’

  She hears me, which isn’t a bad thing. But from the filthy look that Peter fires in my direction I fear he did too, which is a bad thing. I really would be more magnanimous in my victory, if only I felt victorious.

  ‘I’ve a date, actually,’says Rose, and then like the witch that she surely is, she turns on her heel and vanishes.

  With her she takes quite a lot of the party spirit.

  The children stuff themselves on fizzy drinks and cakes and become hyper. I don’t bother to try to get Auriol to stick with water. I haven’t the energy for the battle, and besides, Connie won’t gossip about my failing. The children scream and behave daftly, as expected, but the adults are much more subdued. We munch our way through the soup and pie and it’s all delicious; compliments are duly given to Eva but the atmosphere is tainted. Although we make reasonable headway into the punch, none of us appears the least bit merry. It’s amazing that Rose can ruin a party even when she’s not at it.

  Connie and I escape the hot house by offering to drag the kids to two or three neighbouring houses to trick or treat. We leave Luke in charge of Flora and Peter in charge of the bag of jelly lollypops (bought from Harrods, delivered to my office by courier). I haven’t bothered to put them on the pumpkin plate. There’s not much point, everyone knows I’m not perfect.

  As the door slams behind us the kids dash ahead and straight up the path of our neighbour.

  ‘That was a million laughs,’I comment to Connie.

  ‘Well, you didn’t help get the evening off to a glorious start, did you?’she points out with best-friend killer honesty. ‘Why can’t you be more pleasant to Rose? She’s never done anything to hurt you.’

  ‘Hasn’t she?’

  ‘No, she hasn’t, Lucy. She’s lovely. Everyone knows she is.’

  And that’s why I can’t be more pleasant to her.

  ‘You could just try being polite. Peter would appreciate it. Why do you complicate things?’

  ‘Some things are just irresistible, Connie. You know that,’I reply.

  I feel chastised by Connie’s appeal and worse, I know that once all the guests have gone, I am going to hear more of the same from Peter.

  ‘So who is her date with?’

  ‘A guy called Rob, I think.’

  ‘Where did she meet him? Stamp club?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did she place an advert?’I ask meanly. Well, honestly, Connie can’t expect me to believe that after six barren years men have suddenly started to beat a path to her door, not without some provocation.

  ‘What do you care, Lucy,’says Connie. And by her tone it’s clear she isn’t going to say any more on the subject. She’s fiercely loyal to Rose. I feel very alone.

  *

  It’s after ten by the time we manage to get Auriol and the boys to bed. They are jacked up on sweets and I don’t have the energy to stem the flow, so when I notice Henry smuggle a tube of Smarties under his pillow all I say is, ‘Don’t forget to clean your teeth.’I close the door on them, take a deep breath and go in search of Peter. I might as well face the music.

  He’s sitting in his study; he has a large tumbler of whisky in his hand and his eyes are closed. I watch him from the doorway and my chest tightens with love. I still adore him. Even though nowadays we are cross with one another more often than not and even though I know he’s about to scold me as though I am a child, I still worship him. Always have. Always will. So why isn’t it simpler?

  ‘I know you’re there,’he says without opening his eyes.

  ‘I can’t deny it.’

  ‘Did you have a good night?’he asks. His tone is flat.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘No. I thought not.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Still, the children seemed to enjoy themselves and that was the point,’I say with forced joviality.

  ‘Yes, I think they did. Although the boys are not babies any more. They’ll soon pick up on your antagonism towards their mother unless you can find a way to keep it in check. For that matter Auriol will too. You were hardly a shining example of generosity of spirit tonight, were you?’

  I remain silent. I hate it when he behaves like a schoolteacher, my father or God. Especially when he has a point.

  ‘Why can’t you be nicer to her?’he asks.

  How long has he got? ‘It’s not personal. It’s my sense of humour,’I lie. ‘You know I have a wicked streak.’

  ‘Yes, I do,’he confirms.

  How can I tell him that the reason I find it hard to be nice to Rose is because I think she is always judging me and finding me lacking. She saps my confidence as no other soul on this earth has ever been able to do. Everything about her is a condemnation of me. Her flat, sensible shoes chastise my strappy Manolo Blahniks. Her untrammelled hair reprimands my carefully coiffured look – she might as well wear a sign around her neck declaring that spending £250 on highlighting every month is a mortal sin. Her home-cooked organic meals declare that the convenience foods that I have to resort to on occasion are practically poisonous. Besides, everybody is nice to Rose. She doesn’t need me to be nice to her too.

  ‘Poor Lucy,’says Peter. His tone is full of genuine concern and a little bit of sadness. He knows why I can’t be nice to her. I have to keep making the snide comments about her weight and her tediously dull nature, lest he forgets. Peter loved her once. It is possible that he could love her again. No doubt if the entire situation was reversed Rose would be nice to me. Of course she would, and that irritates me too. I’m not as good a person as she is.

  I fling myself on top of Peter. He opens his eyes and stares at me. The intensity is a little overwhelming when he brushes a strand of hair behind my ear and asks, ‘What are you scared of, Luce?’

  ‘Me? Nothing. I’m never scared,’I reply automatically.

  ‘No, seriously. What are you scared of?’he pursues.

  Before Peter I feared very little in this world, virtually nothing. But now I have all sorts of fears. I fear how much I love him and I fear that he doesn’t love me as much as I love him, or as much as the day he met me, or as much as he loved Rose. But my biggest fear is that I might stop loving him. If I ever stop loving him the world has no purpose, no sense. We stay silent for many minutes. Peter gently strokes my back and continues to stare into my eyes. I begin to feel self-conscious. I haven’t checked my make-up since applying it this morning. And when I weighed myself yesterday I was two pounds heavier than last time I checked. I wonder if I feel heavier to Peter. Am I going to give him a dead leg by sitting on his knee?

  ‘You’re crying,’he says.

  I am? The shame.

  ‘Peter, please don’t stop loving me,’I blurt, answering his question, albeit indirectly. ‘Even when I’m horrible.’

  ‘I won’t. We’re forever, Lucy. You know that.’

  But he probably once said forever to Rose too, didn’t he? Talk’s cheap. I must look unconvinced because Peter adds, ‘I’ll always love you, even though you are the most malicious bitch in town and you don’t deserve it.’

  He grins as he says this; his wide, sexy, usually irresistible grin. I know he’s trying to make a joke. It’s the kind of thing I used to say about myself. But right now I consider his ugly comments offensive in the extreme. I could rip his head off with my bare hands or bite off his bollocks and spit them in his eye. It takes every ounce of self-control I have for me to stand up and walk away without kicking him.

  ‘I have to be up very early tomorrow. I think it makes sense for me to sleep in the spare room. I don’t want to disturb you,’I say calmly.

  ‘Oh,
don’t be like that,’he says, seeing through my transparent excuse as I’d wanted him to. I want to reject him but I don’t want to have to be above board about it. It’s complicated.

  ‘I’m not being like anything,’I reply. I make a dignified exit.

  ‘What about a goodnight kiss?’he calls after me.

  I pretend not to hear him. If I kiss him and he uses his tongue, I’m not sure I’d resist the temptation to bite it off and then swallow it. A consequence he should have considered before making those ill-advised comments.

  32

  Saturday 4 November

  John

  ‘I’m sure it’s not your sort of thing,’said Craig. Underselling his offer even while he was trying to tempt us. ‘You probably have cooler places to go but I could do with the extra pairs of hands, if you could spare the time.’

  Tom shrugged and said he’d check with Jenny but he imagined it would be all right, they’d both go along.

  ‘Count me in,’I said immediately.

  ‘Really?’Craig couldn’t hide his surprise.

  ‘Too right, mate. I love fireworks night, always have.’

  I love the smell of hot dogs and onions in buns, I love drunken kids messing around on waltzers at the dodgy fairs that erupt from nowhere. I love the smell of burning. It’s an exciting night, dangerous and colourful.

  ‘Our school bonfire night will be a relatively small affair. A number of local schools share a sports ground and we normally all chip in together to build a bonfire in the field. There will be a couple of fairground attractions but no death wheel or rollercoaster.’

  ‘I get it. It will be more coconut shies and hook-a-duck,’I said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sounds great.’Tom gave me a sly wink over the top of his pint glass. He hadn’t forgotten about Connie. Craig, who has a more innocent mind, had.

  As we walk to the school sports ground I can’t deny a definite feeling of excitement and anticipation and it isn’t the bangers that I’m getting worked up about. It’s freezing cold and drizzling, but that’s traditional. It’s only 6 p.m. but fireworks belonging to the impatient occasionally flash in the sky, bloom and disappear. As a kid I thought fireworks were like little spells, tiny shots of magic exploding into the air, and I get a similar sense now.

  The crowd, as expected, is predominantly families. I start to scan the masses for her face. There are dads carrying kids on their shoulders. There are grandparents fussing over the cost of the neon antennae and flashing wands that the touts are enticing the children with. There’s quite a show of teenagers. The girls are dressed inappropriately for the season, wearing short skirts and low-cut shirts; they refuse to fasten their coats no matter how much their mams nag. The lads stand around smoking, sharing a can or two and cussing in loud voices. It’s familiar.

  Jenny, Tom and I check in with Craig. His school is not in charge of anything too grand, at his own insistence. He’s worked behind the scenes for months now but he didn’t want to light the first firework. His staff is in charge of the various toffee-apple stores that are dotted around the field.

  Having asked us to lend a hand, he’s now insisting that everything is under control. It’s easy to doubt him, as he’s looking extremely harassed and kids are nicking toffee-apples whenever his back is turned. Tom, Jen and I agree to see him later and we kill some time in the funfair. We make ourselves dizzy on the waltzers and I prove that I’m a dab hand at arcade games and shooting ranges, which just goes to show my youth wasn’t wasted.

  I keep a constant eye out for Connie and am rewarded when I spot her in the queue for cups of tea.

  ‘I’ll go and get us all a cuppa. Leave you two lovebirds alone for a while,’I tell Tom and Jen, then I quickly disappear into the crowd before they can offer to come with me.

  ‘Hello, Connie.’I join her in the queue.

  ‘What are you doing here, John?’She sounds annoyed and panicked in roughly equal proportions, which surprises me – we’d left it friendly enough after our day out. Connie is wearing a pair of the neon disco boppers, which makes me smile. Sometimes she’s so uncool she almost circles back in on herself and becomes cool again.

  ‘Nice look,’I say with a grin. She can’t be humoured – she glares at me and then snatches them off her head.

  ‘Fran wanted me to wear them.’She won’t be sidetracked. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m here with Tom, my mate and his girlfriend – I should say fiancée or else she’ll get arsey. We’re here to support Craig. This is quite a big event for him.’

  ‘Yes, it is for everyone at the school, headmaster, teachers, children and parents,’she hisses, as she stealthily takes a guilty look around.

  ‘I thought you might be here.’I don’t see the point in lying. I’m here for her.

  Now she looks furious. ‘Luke’s here too.’Ah. I hadn’t given that much thought. ‘If he sees you…’She lets the sentence trail away because we both know what the consequences might be.

  I try to distract her. ‘Have you been in the funfair?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not even to hook-a-duck?’

  ‘Luke’s over there now, with the girls.’

  ‘Have you tried the hot dogs?’

  ‘Generally I avoid them, they’re a health hazard.’

  ‘Bought candyfloss?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you like candyfloss.’

  I have no idea whether she likes candyfloss or not. It’s a punt. Suddenly, she looks exhausted. I hope she’s tired of resisting me.

  ‘How come you remember things like that? It’s unfair. You being here is unfair.’

  She stares at her feet. The grass has been trodden to mud, she’s in heels and her boots are caked. I find her inappropriate footwear pleasing. She’s not übersensible, despite what she wants me to believe.

  We are at the front of the queue now. ‘Can I buy your tea?’

  ‘I have money.’

  I ignore her and order. ‘Two of your finest polystyrene cups, mate.’

  The spotty teenager who is serving scalds my hand as he passes me the tea. I offer one to Connie. She hesitates.

  ‘Come on Con, it’s freezing. It will taste like cat’s piss but you can wrap your fingers around it at least and get a bit of warmth.’

  She looks over her shoulder and finally takes one from me. Then she allows me to splash in some whisky from my hip flask.

  ‘Do not let a member of the PA see you doing that,’she giggles, relaxing slightly after only a sip. She’s such a lightweight when it comes to boozing.

  ‘Good turnout,’I say, looking over towards the crowd around the bonfire.

  ‘Yes, but I haven’t seen your special friend, Diane.’

  I keep my eyes in front of me and consider the situation. Ah, so Diane is a gossip. I knew she had a big mouth, a fact I appreciated when she was giving head, but it may prove to be a nuisance now. She’s clearly told people of our interlude. It might not be a bad thing, it has at least piqued Connie’s interest and it’s introduced the topic of sex. Sex is something neither of us has alluded to since we re-met. Before, we shared the most explicit relationship ever. Now, I pretend to be as interested in sex as a spayed dog but the truth is, whenever I look at Connie, I envisage her with her legs or her mouth wide open.

  ‘Is it true? Did you have sex with Diane?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why? Why did you do that?’she demands.

  Connie sucks on her top lip when she’s angry. Oh crap, the session with the yummy mummy might make her bounce. Jealousy is useful, disappointment is not. I lead her away from the crowds and the caravan selling tea and move towards the thickets of trees that surround the field. She follows me with no resistance. It’s not in her interest to be seen with me.

  ‘I thought we were supposed to be being friends,’she says.

  ‘We are.’

  ‘Sleeping with someone under my nose isn’t exactly friendly, is it?’

&nb
sp; ‘As we are just friends, why does it matter who I sleep with?’

  ‘Were you trying to make me jealous?’

  ‘No, I never thought about that, although I’m thrilled to see that you are.’

  ‘I am not,’she cries loudly, a little like a hammy pantomime dame. ‘Were you trying to humiliate me? Was this about getting a reaction from me?’

  ‘No. It was nothing to do with you.’

  ‘You like her?’I hear panic and maybe even tears in Connie’s voice. I turn to her and catch her in the full intensity of a straight-on stare.

  ‘When I say it was nothing to do with you, I’m not being accurate. I needed to have sex with her to understand something about myself, but in a way it was all about you.’She’s all ears. ‘I needed to see if it was you I wanted or the challenge of a married mother.’

  She looks away. She’s speechless. A first. That’s the problem with being honest, so few people can deal with it. The rain falls like a mist between us. I watch her digest what I’ve said.

  Eventually she steels her courage. ‘And?’

  ‘And it’s you. Just you I want.’

  She sighs and stays silent for about a week. Dragging her eyes to mine, she says finally, ‘You are talking yourself into this. It’s not real.’

  ‘I don’t agree.’I hold her gaze. I need to force us both to face this.

  ‘We’d be like the millennium eve.’

  ‘You’ve lost me.’

  ‘Too much expectation, too much anticipation.’

  ‘So you are expecting me.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that.’

  ‘And anticipating me.’

  She shakes her head, trying to clear the confusion. She never will. ‘Do you get some sort of kick out of destroying my peace of mind?’

  ‘Oh, Greenie.’

  I wonder if I should tell her that she didn’t used to be special, every piece of skirt was a challenge and nothing more, her included. But now the stakes are much higher, and yes, I do get a kick out of chasing her and tempting her. But the most enormous kick would be having her. Perhaps even keeping her. When did that happen? How the hell did that happen? I’m poacher turned gamekeeper. It’s a fucking disaster.