by Adele Parks
The bastard.
It wasn’t the money. There was more than enough to go around – a few hundred thousand left to this boy wouldn’t materially have altered her lifestyle – but putting two and two together made Abigail understand quite completely what Melanie Field had stolen from her.
‘I never wanted to hurt you,’ Mel said again. She sounded like a stuck fucking record. Of course she’d wanted to hurt her. That was why she sent the photo. Melanie must have realised how rich and influential Rob had become, and she’d decided to cash in her chips through a spot of blackmail, perhaps. Or maybe her jealousy had ultimately got the better of her. Maybe Melanie could no longer stand the idea of Abi living happily with Rob; she’d probably turned bitter after pining for him for seventeen years! So, she sent the photo hoping Abi would find it. She sent it to destroy Abi’s peace of mind.
To destroy her mind altogether.
And it had worked. Sometimes she thought she was losing the plot. That she’d taken things too far. Other times she felt justified, vindicated. Her view changed almost daily. That could be her hormones. It could be desperation.
Melanie’s expression slowly began to morph from contrition to outrage. She really could be quite horribly dim. It was so obvious that Liam got his brains from his father.
‘You came here, knowing who Liam was?’
‘Yes,’ Abi admitted with a casual shrug. ‘You fucked the love of my life. And now I’m fucking your son. Tell me you can’t see the poetic justice.’ There was a knock at the door. ‘That must be the photographer. Time to get this show on the road.’
58
Melanie
I can’t move. I’m pinioned to the chair, overwhelmed with shock and disbelief. I’m vaguely aware that the hotel suite is filling up with different people. Someone from housekeeping has arrived; she’s plumping pillows, refreshing glasses, managing to be in ten places at once. I imagine that Abi has spent a lot on this wedding and is an important client to the hotel. The photographer and her assistant arrive; I keep my back to them as I don’t want to have to make pleasant conversation, I’m not up to it. I think there’s also another woman checking Abi’s make-up and hair. These people are buzzing, chatting happily about the day ahead as though this is a normal wedding, as though Abi is not blind with a desire to dish out reprisals and retaliation. It’s so peculiar being here with her. Knowing what I do. From the outside, she looks like every other bride might look. Beautiful, excited, happy, normal. But inside, she’s crazy, cruel, deranged. She has plotted to hurt me and has embroiled my son in her Greek revenge tragedy. Other people don’t know and I can’t tell them.
Lily and Imogen are called from the bedroom. They eye me warily. I force myself to throw a reassuring smile in their direction and I note their bodies relax. They grin and accept the compliments that everyone is showering their way; someone pins flowers in their hair and then they start to scrupulously follow the photographer’s instructions. They sit at Abi’s feet, skirts spread, they hold their posies in front of their chests. I watch all of this as though I am behind a glass. As though I can’t reach them. I need to take them by the hand and march them out of here. I need to find Ben and Liam and tell them everything I know.
I think of the photograph of Liam holding his fantastic results. No. No. No. I feel it like a physical pain. I caused this. This is all my fault. If I hadn’t sent the photo to Rob, Abi would never have come into our lives, none of this would have happened. What was I thinking? I had never been in touch, hadn’t so much as uttered Rob Larsen’s name aloud to anyone, ever, in seventeen years. If he drifted into my mind I always violently pushed him out of it. I didn’t romanticise the man. I didn’t demonise him either. All my efforts went into pretending he didn’t exist at all.
And then, the day Liam got his GCSE exam results Rob ‘Liked’ my Facebook post.
It was unbelievable. Such a disconcerting, unexpected act. I hadn’t even posted the picture that every other parent felt entitled to post. All morning, other people’s pictures had choked my feed. A beaming child, gripping the slip of paper that amounts to the culmination of years of school work, proud parents standing by or tightly hugging their teens. But I didn’t allow myself to post our version. While I had no reason to think Rob had ever looked at my Facebook, had ever given me another thought in his life – why would he? - I had always been cautious about the information I posted about Liam. I never dared post pictures of him. I didn’t want to attract attention. I really didn’t.
However, I couldn’t quite resist celebrating him that day. Not after all his work, not after all he had achieved. Celebrating? Bragging I suppose, that’s how Abi sees parental posts. Bragging, taunting, tormenting.
Naturally, interested friends and family were writing on my timeline asking how he had fared so I wrote: We’re so proud of Liam. His results are just what he deserves after all his hard work and preparation! It was low key. I didn’t write what I wanted, which was Ha! That’s one in the eye for you doomsayers that swore a teen mother would make a crummy job of raising a child and that the state would be burdened with a delinquent. He’s a bloody genius!
Quite controlled of me, actually.
Obviously, old friends and acquaintances pressed ‘Like’, alongside the parents of kids in Liam’s class. People are generous on results day. We’re all happy for each other. Relieved. The ‘Like’ count grew and grew. Thirty, forty. Fifty. Some smiley faces and many congratulatory comments were added.
I guess Rob Larsen and I must have had enough mutual friends – Abi for a start – my Facebook setting was too lax. Set on visible, friends of friends caught the post, I hadn’t thought of that. Or maybe he looked us up. It’s possible that he worked out that Liam would be taking his exams and Rob may have been curious. Who knows. Anyway, he ‘Liked’ the post.
And it threw me.
His ‘Like’, there among all the others. A poke. A question. A nod. It seemed significant. The first interaction we’d had since the night I told him I was pregnant.
It wasn’t tricky to track down an email address for him. I sent the photo I’d taken of Liam, grinning from ear to ear, gratified, jubilant. The one I’d decided not to post because I never wanted to give Rob the satisfaction of seeing him grow. It makes no sense. I don’t know why I did it. Maybe it was to do with the fact that we’d opened a bottle of champagne at breakfast, just as soon as Liam had picked up his results online. I’d had two, maybe three glasses by that point. I was feeling carefree. Emotional. Victorious.
Generous.
That’s the irony. It came from a good place. That may be hard to believe and understand now but all I wanted was to share Liam’s fabulousness. I wanted, on some level, to acknowledge that Rob had a part in it. Even though he hadn’t, not really.
Ben.
Oh my God, what will Ben think of this news? He asked me if I’d kept Rob updated on Liam and I lied. I said I never had. I should have told him about the photo when I had the chance, but I just didn’t have it in me to come clean. I wasn’t courageous enough, I suppose. We were just getting back on an even keel when the subject came up, and I couldn’t face any more trouble. Although we’ve trouble enough now.
In the subject box, I wrote The boy done good, if you’ve been wondering. What an idiot I am. After I pressed send, I regretted it immediately. Firstly, I didn’t know if Rob would understand that I was trying to be funny; maybe he’d just think that because I didn’t finish my university career I struggled with basic grammar – he really could be an intellectual snob. But mostly, I regretted it because Liam belonged to us, to Ben and me, and I felt I’d betrayed our unit. Ben was the one who had pored over Google and text books when Liam had a problem with some homework, Ben was the one who came to parents’ evenings, option-choice talks and career-information seminars, Ben dashed to the shops to buy a protractor at the last minute the night before a maths exam. It was nothing to do with Rob. Sending the email spoilt my day; my mood shifted. I remember feeling a se
nse of despair, impending doom even. I was right about that much.
I’ve ruined everything.
I stand up. My legs are shaking but I manage to walk across to Abi – she’s sat at her dressing table. The make-up artist is lightly brushing powder on her nose and the photographer is checking light levels, flash bulbs keep popping. The girls are in the corner of the room now, being entertained by the photographer’s assistant. I know all these people are with us, I’m aware of them, but I don’t care about them. I feel as though it’s just the two of us. We’re like boxers in a ring; we must slug it out.
‘You used Liam to get back at me?’
She’s calm and cool. ‘Who better to use?’
‘How could you?’ I’m incredulous, such cruelty.
‘I wanted to hurt you. I wanted to make things even,’ she replies, matter-of-fact. ‘Not that I could ever do that. I could never get back the seventeen years you stole from me.’
‘What are you talking about? I didn’t steal anything from you. What I did was wrong, and I’m sorry for it but I tried to get out of your way.’ Abi looks disdainful, not believing a word I say. She stands up and imperiously indicates to the woman helping her with her make-up that she wants her veil fastening onto her headdress now. ‘I made a mistake,’ I admit. When she doesn’t acknowledge me I add with infuriation, ‘Abi, do I have to remind you that I wasn’t the only one Rob slept with at the time? He had others. You know he did. So did you. Your relationship hadn’t reached the exclusive stage – it was very on-off.’
‘None of his other flirtations were my best friend, none of the others got pregnant,’ she insists, stonily. ‘You stole from me, Melanie.’
The photographer glares at me. Besides judging me as the devil incarnate, I’m obviously hindering her work. Although, somehow, Abi still manages to move about the room, turning her head and her smile towards the camera when necessary. Gathering I’m pre-occupied, the photographer’s assistant corrals the girls and the bridal party sets off towards the door. There’s talk about going downstairs and getting photos in the impressive wood-panelled hallway and stunning reception, by the fountain in the courtyard, too. It seems nothing must get in the way of the preparation for this wedding, least of all conscience, truth or morality.
On the landing, Abi suddenly stops dead in her tracks. Lily stumbles on Abi’s dress hem – indeed we all nearly tumble into a pile. Abi turns to me and glares. She leans close, ‘Don’t you get it, Melanie? He knew he had a son. That’s why he never needed to have one with me! You stole my chance of a child.’ She says this with absolute conviction, but her logic is so flawed that it is breathtaking to me.
‘That’s not true. He didn’t want his son. When I told him I was pregnant, he said he’d pay for a private abortion. When I refused, he said that was up to me but he didn’t ever want to have another conversation with me again.’
It was brutal. The man she’s loved for twenty years, the man I conceived a child with, was – and no doubt still is – a selfish monster.
‘Can you lower your bouquet, please? You’re hiding the detail of your dress.’ The request comes from the photographer. Abi obliges. Turns to the camera, flashes her kilowatt smile once again. I wish all these people would just go away. This is madness. Abi moves towards the stairway and leans against the ornate iron railings. The photographer tells her to stretch her arm to the left to better show off her engagement ring. The pose looks unnatural although I’m sure it will make a lovely shot.
‘Liam is in his will. Do you know that?’ Abi hissess to me through clenched teeth.
‘No, I didn’t. No.’ I shake my head. It doesn’t fit with what I know of Rob. He’s never contributed financially, and I’ve never asked for a penny. Why would he bequeath anything to Liam? Although, who else? He’s constructed his life in a way that means there is no one else. Not even Abi. ‘I don’t want his money. This has never been about his money,’ I state firmly.
‘Whatever.’ She holds up her hand, uninterested, unbelieving. ‘Well, you may have stopped me having a baby with Rob, but now I have the next best thing.’
And then the full horror of this situation settles into my bones. I move close to Abi and tug on her arm, turning her so our backs are to the others.
‘You planned all of this. You meant to get pregnant by Liam. This wasn’t an accident,’ I whisper.
‘Give the woman a prize,’ she sniggers.
She glides towards the top of the stairs. I feel unbalanced. Out of kilter. My senses are not behaving properly. I can taste metal in my mouth.
‘Do you love him, at all?’ I demand, hardly caring who hears us, just needing answers.
It makes no sense. I don’t want this woman anywhere near my son – she’s mad with vengeance and incapable of clear thinking, but she’s pregnant with his baby and he is in love with her. It will destroy him if he learns that he was just a pawn in her messy, nasty game. I want to hear she loves him. Only that might keep him safe.
‘He’s a sweet boy. I thought he’d be too young for me at first, that I might get squeamish about it but he’s well-built, isn’t he? Very able in the sack, as we discussed, and virile, which was the most important thing.’ I gawp at her, devastated. Each word she utters cuts like a knife. ‘He looks quite a lot like Rob, don’t you think? That will be nice for my baby. It will look like I’ve always imagined it would.’
I shake my head, stunned, bemused. Unsure of what I can say. She takes my gesture as a denial and this makes her angry.
‘I know why you never posted pictures of your children on social media – it’s not because you are nervous of paedos, the thoughtful, evolved custodian of their privacy—’
‘I never said that.’ It’s pointless trying to interject with any reasoning. She steamrolls on.
‘It’s because Liam has more than a passing resemblance to his father, isn’t it? You must have known I’d notice it straight away. I saw Rob in him the moment I walked through the door. How could you have invited me to your home? You knew I would. You must have wanted to hurt me again.’
‘No, no, it wasn’t like that. I invited you here because I thought that, maybe with Rob out of the way, we could have a friendship again. I thought you needed me.’ She glares at me. I carry on. ‘Liam doesn’t look much like Rob. He’s blonde, yes, tall, yes, blue eyed, but his chin, his jaw, those are mine.’ I know I sound crazy. It’s not clear whether I want to deny being arrogant, or hurting her, or the fact Liam looks like Rob. All of it. I want to deny all of it. ‘I didn’t post pictures because I didn’t want Rob to see him grow. I felt he didn’t deserve that. I never considered that you’d see a resemblance because I’ve never seen it.’
Abi turns to the make-up artist, who is wide-eyed, agog with the drama, and demands, ‘Hand me my bag.’ She is given a small, silky clutch bag that she obviously intends to hold once she’s put down her flowers. I imagine it contains a lipstick for re-application, maybe her phone. Abi opens her bag and pulls out a packet of old photographs. She starts to scrabble through them. ‘Look,’ she demands. I don’t move. She tuts impatiently and then scatters picture after picture onto the floor at my feet. Rob, a student in jeans at a barbeque, smoking a joint; Rob in what looks like his first suit, nervously stood behind a lectern, probably about to give an early lecture; Rob with her parents walking dogs in a park; Rob on a beach, no more than twenty-eight or -nine years old. In these photos, he looks nothing like the big bold man I’ve recently seen on photos in gossip magazines or online. There is a resemblance between him and Liam, even considering the vagaries of fashion. I had forgotten. They’re not identical, but there are enough similarities to make a comparison. I had never seen it. I hadn’t wanted to. I suppose she wants nothing more.
Eventually, she stops throwing photos at me. Slowly, she bends and tenderly picks them up, seeming surprised to see them scattered. She carefully secretes them away, as though they are worth a thousand pounds each. The photographer has stopped clicking, the make-up ar
tist is no longer fussing. We all stand in silence.
Finally, I understand with absolute clarity: she still loves Rob. She has only ever loved Rob. Poor Liam. What will she do next? Will she keep him dangling or will she cut him loose?
I lean close to her and quietly ask, ‘How could you use Liam like this?’ I am bewildered. ‘None of this mess is his fault. He thinks you love him. You told him you loved him.’ My blood freezes. ‘You want to ruin his life, please don’t,’ I beg.
‘I’m not ruining anything. I’m having a baby. He can be involved as much or as little as he wants. I’m not unrealistic; I realise that Liam might lose interest anyway, sooner or later. And then he’ll move on, but I don’t mind. I’ll have a baby, my baby. Rob’s grandchild.’ She throws out a slow smile that’s closer to a sneer.
‘I’ll tell him all of this.’
‘He’d never believe you or anyone else over me.’ The truth of this punches and paralyses me. Abi carries on, her tone is almost sing-song. As though this is a game to her. ‘You know, he might not lose interest. He’s devoted to me now. Hangs on my every word. Holds me so close. He’s given up his education for me and next he’ll give up his country. We’re going to America, Melanie, I bet you didn’t know that?’
Naturally, I didn’t. She’s seen to it that we haven’t been speaking. America, so far away.
‘Yes, there’s every chance that I might lose interest first. I sometimes think I’m already getting bored. Then what will he have left? No home, no education to fall back on; he’ll be a divorcee, the baby-daddy to another woman. He won’t be such a catch anymore. Still, you don’t have to worry about that just yet. At the moment, I like having him around. It suits me. So, let’s get on with this wedding, should we?’
And it is instinct. Not a thought-through action. Not premeditated or considered at all. A sudden push, a violent shove. Just something to get her to stop going on and on. Something to shut her up. But suddenly she is falling, limbs and skirt tangled as she plummets down the stairs. It’s a long, endless moment that is simultaneously over in a second. I see her bouquet rise into the air, her legs too. Like she’s a puppet and the puppeteer has jerked her strings upwards. Thud, thud, thud, thud. One after another, over and over again. Until she is still. Nothing. The puppeteer has thrown her down. Her limbs are all strange, poked out at sickening angles.